Moments
by russiasnow11
Summary: Moments in the lives of nations. [at first focuses on PruAus, then FrUk, then RusAme, etc, and expands to the whole world]
1. Chapter 1

Roderich sat listening to Jose Serebrier conducting Dvorák's 'Slavonic Dance no. 2 in E minor, op. 72' [Slawischer Tanz Nr. 2, E-Moll, op. 72] on the couch in the music room. A sibilant and lovely take on the piece. Good music for summer is hard to keep at hand when the haze of August takes hold, but it has quite the icy effect. Just as music works on the mind, it can reach the body. What a lovely way to spend the time before the maid sends up tea, he thought.

He only bothered to make tea and cakes himself if he knew Gilbert was coming over. The secret service of the order of St. Elisabeth of Hungary [Hl. Elisabeth von Ungarn] always drop a note at the window by pigeon to tell him in advance. No one gets through the borders without covert eyes on them, but it is quite refreshing to pretend to be shocked at his appearance.

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Roderich spends a lot of time simply playing music; a type of 'study' in action. He just realized he must make a note to work more on his mastery of the Ars subtilior. Both in knowledge and in all the piano arrangements.

But it wouldn't do for Gilbert to see the scores laid out, he could tell his bothersome little friend Francis. How he would lord it over me, that it blossomed in his southlands, as if he had anything to do with it all, Roderich thought. What can one do, I suppose.

Thank goodness that if Antonio finds out about it he will be tolerable. How odd that Gilbert is so against me spending any time in the company of him, actually. He's almost insecure in strange little ways at times. As if I would invite Antonio to tea, really. The man prefers churros. What else is there to say?

At least I have cultivated Gilbert's taste in many ways, subtly, over the centuries, he consoled himself. He knows good tea and good food. As for my scores and music papers, I shall have to hide it away at a moment's notice… Thank goodness I've got ars nova down at least. I will have to put on Philipoctus de Caserta's 'De ma doulour' from Century 7's album Ars Subtilior.

But he still has not gotten out a recording of opera Lina Cavalieri [photo, 1907 - Reutlinger], as I meant to. Sometimes Roderich could see why Gilbert misinterpreted his heavy schedule and called him lazy. He really does enjoy Cavalieri when he can be bothered to dig out the big records, especially her 'In Quelle Trine Morbide' voicework in Puccini's 1892 opera 'Manon Lescaut'. What an excellent soprano.

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Ach, he is coming over, Roderich thought. Gilbert is always ill timed, even at the best of times. It is always awkward. At least that is a constant that remains through the eras.

He has been moody underneath his chatter and jabber lately. Instead of being full of cheer, the flotsam is simply jetsam, just an avoidance of whatever he's out of countenance about. He will have to make Dominosteine, Roderich concluded. When Gilbert is too dour he is always heartened by reminders of Christmas and holiday sweets. And he always eats more than his share of Roderich's Lebkuchen [gingerbread], marzipan, apricot variation on the recipe.

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Roderich often has to be away from home all day, overseeing auditions for the Wiener Philharmoniker [Vienna Philharmonic]. At least the quality level of the musicians is tolerable, as they must already be serving in the Vienna State Oopera's orchestra corps for three years.

He's sure he won't have problems finding flaws. At least the stress of preparing for the annual open air Summer Night Concert is over–it was May 29th, out by Neptune's fountain in the gardens of the Schönbrunn Palace.

He loves his work, of course, but he hates having to leave the country manor house and go into the city. It's always a little stuffy in summer, and the city streets lack the cool refreshment of his estate grounds. He don't even need to install an air system, it's naturally chill in the shadows of the trees and peaks.

The city is always crowded, and he has no patience for tourists. So many rush around–it is ungainly. And the roads are organized without sense or logic. Thank god he has a set of maids to drive him in. Those street signs are never up to date, who would be able to find their way quickly, I tell you, he thinks.

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Thank goodness he'd made up a fresh Tournusien cake last night. Roderich is sure it will be found by one of those two interlopers. He always instructs the staff to let in Gilbert or Elizabeta without question or interference. Since they usually take the back way while scaling fences, he feels it's safer that they not be distracted. Inattention leads to injury, as they say.

They both feel they can stop by whenever they wish. He has tried to instill manners in both of them. …I am still working on it, he thought.

They both like gateau Tournusien, from a town of Francis's–from Tournus of Saône-et-Loire in the mid-East of France. It is often made with meringue, almonds, vanilla buttercream and bursts or pockets of nougat inside. I must say, some foreign desserts are tolerable, though they are few indeed, he thinks.

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The music room housed several instruments, most all kept in appropriate cupboards. There was a violin, a flute, several smaller-side harps, a spinet, a piano and a very early harpsichord.

And of course the collection from the times before that. There was only a little music that had survived from the Middle Ages, but Roderich had tried to preserve all he could. It was their cultural heritage, it was Europe's as well. And playing older music often had the advantage of scaring Gilbert off temporarily. He didn't always want to sit and listen to old forms.

Although it hadn't worked today. He had lounged on the neo-classical couch while Roderich played quite a few of the famous French Baroque composer Rameau's [1683-1764] works, starting with his "Pièces de Clavecin Suite in E Minor: I. Allemande: I" [1706], the first of a set of works, on the harpsichord.

Gilbert always wasted money by sending him postcards with music themes, but Roderich had always preferred Justus van Gent's take on "Music" as a muse in his painting. …Although it would be disappointing for the maid to bring in tea and have no missives from him in the stack on the silver tray.

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Modern lines mean little to them all. They all can compel simple things, return to their nations at a whim. They can touch a mortal's heart and will light accord. They do not lack for servants if they wish it. The nations are spirits, without need for sustenance and able to reappear and go at will.

That doesn't mean Roderich doesn't love his creature comforts. He and Gilbert have always been so closely alongside each other that half the time Gilbert had lived with him. He only cleared out if he was adventuring with armies or travelers, seeing to his friends or avoiding Elisabeta.

In all that time, he has garnered his own room in the house. Of course both would insist it is an armory, a gun room. A place to keep and hang the swords. But they both know the truth. It is Gilbert's room. He has never brought his younger brother over, for neither of the two of them desire to include Ludwig in their odd little existence together. They keep it behind closed doors, acting to stereotype in public.

It is just for the two of them. No one can find a nation's home if it is not wished expressly. They all of them are free. It is just the nature of it all. The ancient simply tired of interacting in a brave new world and checked out of their work life.

Gilbert has always spent his holidays with Roderich. Elisabeta prefers her own country, and Ludwig never cared for holiday nonsense, not even as a child. But the two of them do, each in their own way. Roderich makes an army's worth of sweets and Gilbert is always bringing food over with him.

The fact that they don't require food simply makes it more of a gesture. He never shows up at Roderich's empty handed. Whether it be myrrh, gold or sugar, it's something. When they are alone, their banter is present but lacks bite.

They are free to act as they wish in their innermost heart. Gilbert can relax, refrain, re-energize himself, and Roderich can confess what little things he's done improperly. Somehow they always end up to be punishment meted out to others, always on the sly and subtly. Cutting and unknown.

[One painting on the wall outside the music room was given to Roderich by Gilbert–-a piece attributed in the past to Hieronymus Bosch, and now to one of his followers, c. 1561 'Concert in the Egg']

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The official change to Prussia's status comes as no surprise, but Roderich still lavishes his guest room occupant with his favorite things. They keep the repartée intact and don't mention how Ludwig hasn't been interested in his brother in the least since he met Feli.

Roderich's happy for him in a way, but disappointed in his conduct. He hardly looks up from his obsession with work to notice his brother hasn't come around for years and years. Not even visiting.

When Roderich gets lost, falls down some icy steps and has to recuperate in a chair, Gilbert serves him without referring to their situation in words. Their conversations have little bearing on their actual movements, and both prefer it that way. Gilbert is such a jealous dear that he tacitly forbid Francis and Antonio from even visiting or inquiring about it.

And then during wartime he's busy, either existing on the fringe and watching his men [mortals cannot recall or retain the truth about the nations, they are forgotten instantly] or aiding various internal resistance groups if he's against the war.

And always, each night, he returns to that country manor. To Roderich.

Austria hardly bothered to go to world meetings in the first place, seeing as how they're a silly formality. Nations cannot affect their home officials or policies anyway. He's always just sent a servant in his place. Prussia finally begins to do the same, and also starts to work on Roderich's lands. He's quite the builder, and becomes involved with agricultural science.

Not to mention the landscaping. Roderich has professional grade gardens at this point. Gilbert's even begun to recognize the art on the walls and the music by composer, though he is perhaps loath to admit it to Roderich's face.

[One such painting on the walls is 18th c., unknown painter's oil work 'Dipinto raffigurante la scena di un intermezzo a Venezia' ('Painting depicting the scene of an intermezzo in Venice')]

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They both share a lack of patience for the modern world. Roderich has never gotten along well with Ludwig or Feli. He does not like mechanical efficiency [unless it's on the part of his servants], lack of subtlety, or total artlessness. And neither does he like Feli's slow, aimless enjoyment of life.

They are both extremes. Roderich prefers elegance, perfect balance, practical yet mystique-buried and layered symbolism. He likes ordering the servants to keep Gilbert's favored honeyed meads on hand.

Gilbert likes seeing the old swords still up on the wall at Roderich's manor. Especially the special one, the one he commissioned made much lighter than usual, and much more decorative. It was the one Roderich always carried, even though they were more formal back then.

Not that Roderich's cooled off since then. Not by very much. He's just as argumentative, just as fierce, hidden under a gilded layer of refinement. Gilbert has adapted better to the times, to the coarser expectations of society. Roderich refuses to change. Gilbert loves to be forced into the old ways, and Roderich's endless commands give him the excuse.

To go out dressed in fine raiment, made by hand. To travel with care and exquisite luxury. Gilbert knows that Roderich might not spend a penny to save any other nation, but paradoxically he gives Gilbert a very fine, very secret joint life together–he loves to feel that he deserves to be privileged, and him alone. Roderich is very clear on that fact. No one else is worthy of spending a real life of class among them all. Only Gilbert.

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When Gilbert is grumpy about things he will not verbalize, he comes over and interrupts practice sessions to demand Roderich play his own work, his own compositions.

Sometimes Roderich is out, busy with giving masterclasses to particularly bright musicians or arguing with the other members of the boards of differing musical institutions and schools. When he returns home he finds his entire set of fields and farmlands [those on the edge of his estate] completely cleaned, ploughed, harvested, sparkling and pruned. Gilbert has to burn off his energy somehow. It must be tiring, Roderich thinks, to be him. All that drive and passion and so few acceptable ways nowadays to calm it. He does like to ride, himself, but not as much as Gilbert does. He prefers fighting, boozing and partying, and then riding, in that order.

The man has always somehow got a hold of Roderich's calendar, seeing as he always shows up to accompany him to a performance of his own work, even if Roderich is busy conducting it or playing some musician's part all the while. Even if the work is not his own, Gilbert sometimes shows up unexpectedly. Neither ever really comment on it. Last week he appeared just as Roderich conducted Telemann's 'Horn Concerto in D'.

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Roderich always rings up Gilbert because he 'needs someone to direct his driver when he ventures out to the market for things'. Even though he has a horde of servants to do the shopping anyway.

Gilbert demands to drive them himself, and that's why they always shop together. They both just like to spend the extra time with each other for fun. The best part is that Austria really does need directional help, his head is always in the clouds. He's too lost in music, even just in his imagination, to focus on such trivial things as new, changed street signs or random bends in the road.

Gilbert loves to be called. He likes to be needed, to feel necessary, especially now. And of course there's the unspoken reality that Austria is in touch with deep, ancient magic and Gilbert swore long ago to serve him. Getting to act out their real roles as knight and master is something they both enjoy, however they can fit it in to modern life. Gilbert lives on the edge of his little master's lands and his own, but has his own 'guest' room and things at the manor. They both complain the entire time they're out. Shopping takes them hours, and they love it.

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No one knows… but Gilbert has a secret. Roderich goes with him to Oktoberfest all the time. In absolutely traditional clothing of the highest quality. They go through all the tents together, day after day, and sing and sing. And drink.

Roderich can make a momentary exception from his usual drinks preferences, and Gilbert is only too happy to never mention the entire thing, year after year. It's quite the easy exchange. No one would even believe them if they told. They drink and sing and dance. And share the food. It's always a blur of euphoria. They both get to be themselves, some little part they rarely use, that's usually stored in some dusty corner of the attic.

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Ludwig is a touchy subject in Roderich's house, and Gilbert knows it. He will mention his brother in passing but never tries to have them all hang out together. And no one would guess the reason–he is the child who took the attention due to Roderich away from him; and Gilbert loves even that, that he wants it all. That he was jealous, and won't let it go. An oriflamme hanging forever in the corner, proving he cares.

While Roderich doesn't mention Eliza he feels it's only fit to repay the courtesy. Gilbert often comes along on his season schedule–to listen to some of the auditions for the top orchestras and chamber groups and schools. He also helps him print out and deliver all the articles he writes on music history, interpretation, technique, style and revival.

And then he conducts himself, of course, and plays sometimes as well. Roderich also puts aside time for teaching some of the best and brightest in Europe. It's Gilbert who's sent far and wide to speak to them, convince them to attend conservatories and who picks them up at the airport.

They actually spend an odd amount of time together, now that he thinks of it. The weird thing is, the thing they tell no one, is that Gilbert asked him for a private contract before the second world war–and got it. Roderich had been shocked, but had accepted the branch of rapprochement quite quickly.

The contract was ancient, more councilor and king, knight and master than anything else. It was almost what they had clumsily said so long ago as little sparks of light.

Similarly, Gilbert doesn't mention Francis or Antonio, still furious that they were so closely allied with Roderich at one point. Of course they didn't spend very much time together, but Roderich did choose to hold several sessions listening to their thoughts over the years. He paid them respect, and Gilbert still isn't over it.

It's somehow worse than even emotion would have been, but he can't bear to think of that. He still has not realized Roderich only did it to recognize his tie to them, to honor Gilbert's estimation of them. He has no time for outsiders; it was painful for him.

He cares about very different things than those two particular gentlemen. Gilbert still [quite transparently] feels he must keep Roderich to himself, safe at home, always within his gilded coffeehouses, baroque palaces and rural, edenic hills. He prods him to get out more, and panics when he does.

They are both paradoxes.

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Roderich is one of the power players, one who knows of the old electric mysteries. Tino and Lovino are too, but it's Roderich who arranged Alfred's help in smuggling as much as possible behind the Wall, with Austria as the home base.

He always made sure to include little meaningless things, flotsam and jetsam for Gilbert [like one of the jeweled gospels, a T'oros Roslin from the 1260s a.D., Turkey and Armenia] The man insisted on staying away, volunteering and trying to aide the poor in his lands. Sometimes his altruistic streak drives Roderich crazy. They've lived forever, and will forever more. There is suffering in all parts of the world.

But Gilbert is that type, he still thinks, almost fondly. He would waste his time on those transient mortals, their momentary time is somehow meaningful to him. Roderich is more concerned with what is eternal: art, beauty, timeless wisdom shocking the senses, feeling made tangible, all in music. It is mathematics and barbarous at once. It is emotive and refined and uncontrollable.

They never talk about when Gilbert's almost obsession with him slides past normal and into hysteric. Roderich knows he checks his phone, watches him, gets reports from his servants. He allows it all, and always with a seeming air of oblivious disinterest.

Gilbert's always been afraid of losing him, of not being strong enough to fight for him. Of failing. With the change of his home region's classification names, Roderich's been even more careful to include him in all things Austrian, as a full member. He ensures they use the old wording, simply referring to their general locale instead of their nationalities.

That way, Gilbert has more than enough to do, since he has difficulty working with a little brother who has forgotten who's really in charge, who has seniority. And Gilbert has too much gentleness, too much feeling for him to force the issue.

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Their partnership doesn't always work. It's more than a marriage and not smooth enough to be a friendship; it's a mix of hierarchy, ritual respect and careful love lying dormant, watching them both from their hearts.

When he interrupts Roderich's composing, though, it does not bode well for either of them. It starts a stone rolling down a hill, and it ends with quiet, serious, dismissive words instead of light snarky banter.

Gilbert truly is too needy, too boisterous, all energy and too insecure these days. Roderich is too set in his ways, unwilling to try anything new or change. Why update something, why interrupt the old system, why bother. He is sparse with his affection, his special acts of caring. Sometimes it's not enough.

It doesn't matter, which makes it hard, Gilbert knows. He's still just a bit too far into Roderich, too dependent, too obsessed. He has too much appetite for someone incredibly lazy and not very tuned to the softer, social emotions. It can become a difficult situation quickly, as both recognize their own and the other's problems but can't come up with a solution for the situation.

Gilbert has no time for criticisms of his feelings, as it all is coming from people who have never felt love, or loyalty, or military duty and honor all mix together. So once in a while he dramatically leaves, and drinks, and loudly returns, and when he does, the table is coincidentally set with his favorites.

It's a system they get used to; neither likes it, but it's the only one that works.

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This is the scene Gilbert fears–that Roderich will steal off into the night with Eliza. Probably after defeating him in single combat… And then they stroll away together as he watches, crushed in more than one sense of the word. If your nightmares are going to be unsettling, why not go for the gold, he thinks ruefully. And doesn't he play the fool, the pierrot in their little drama? What is life but a play, right; Gilbert hates that Shakespearean crap.

Too nihilist.

But seriously, his fears are well founded–after all, she and Roderich have things in common. Eliza did go to concerts with Roderich, go on the town with him, do dainty little hushed things that seem to fall into his milieu naturally. A million little spoons everywhere. White or black gloves; fancy gold watches.

And that's it exactly–that's the problem.

Eliza is natural. Their rapport is real, and it threatens him. Gilbert has no illusions. Roderich loves order and old norms, and having a fancy, brilliant, unusually talented-at-fighting woman on your arm is a mark of status. It's the ultimate accessory for a wealthy, cultured man.

A rough, YOLO-loving soldier is not exactly the same thing. Gilbert takes every opportunity to agree with Roderich's disinclination to go to any world meetings, to chat with the other nation-spirits. The others.

This kind of backfired on him at first, what with being dragged to Bayreuth, to the famous concert hall in Bavaria, to help manage the festival, but there's nothing quite like watching Roderich rush around helping stage staff, singers and musicians during the huge concerts. He's kind of gotten used to going; they always need more hands on deck, and Roderich seems to especially appreciate it.

And what if he needs someone to lift something heavy again, or help with the ropes; Gilbert will be there, saving the day–once even holding a floating rhinemaiden up by rope himself for a whole song.

Roderich's so pleased afterwards, it must be the music, all bombastic, Byronic and kesesese Wagnerian… and he's quite adequately compensated for his work, if you know what he means. Wink, wink. Opera isn't always as boring as you'd think, it turns out.

It just depends on who you're watching it with.

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They make quite the pair, one in handmade fancy fabrics and the other in old, beat up jackets and thick shirts. Nevertheless, they frequent almost every Christmas market in the entire German speaking sphere.

Which is quite a few. Roderich and Gilbert stroll together and take in everything, buy little cakes. They both have no use for modern items, for the most part. Gilbert has a few, but most are gifts from his friends. Usually, he prefers weapons or ridiculous things that Roderich gives him. Like a diamond encrusted, illuminated medieval Book of Hours, or a fancy gold watch when he's lost his old one, engraved in ancient script that only they both understand [and one or two old academics].

Never mind the fact that Gilbert's got a modern, cheap watch and his iphone tells the time.

Gilbert plans their Christmas adventures all out carefully, routes listed and musicians called to ask if they can stay in their spare rooms. He swears Roderich knows almost every important singer and player in Europe, for real. They take Roderich's heavy weather vehicle, which he almost never uses.

In fact, Roderich has a lot of things he hardly ever uses. They kind of belong to Gilbert by default, seeing as he's the only one Roderich lets use them.

[for example, Roderich gave Gilbert a hand-painted reproduction of Hans Memling's [c.1433-1494] "Christ surrounded by musician angels"]

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Roderich's days are often made up of fancy dress affairs, dances, charity parties, galas, gallery openings, concerts. The countries with good mutual simpatico–with him personally, that is–sometimes send him letters.

He doesn't want it to get out that he has a computer, and all the accessories. Then people would try to make him talk to them.

Gilbert handles that type of thing for him, as does his hand-picked, ancient power influenced security. A nation can influence those around them in their home state easily, but only slightly. They can just disappear, teleport away and blur out any memories of their immortality or oddity.

Someone like Roderich can do far more. He rarely exercises his power, choosing to concentrate in a kind of passive [versus active] life. The Renaissance men debated the concept, even Petrarch himself, whether it was better to engage or distance oneself from life and society.

Roderich made his choice long ago. So did Gilbert, but his position as protection and counselor to Roderich makes him a special case.

You'd think Gilbert wouldn't want to go out to formal concerts with him, he muses. Roderich's only too aware how boring Gilbert finds staying still. It's the reason he has a state of the art security and electronics system. He's always wanted to have the best records, the best player machines and speakers. Gilbert is invaluable on the project. He hops to immediately.

The man rarely wants something in return, never asking for coin or jewels, just throwaway physicality. The pleasures of the flesh aren't something that matter much to Roderich, so he doesn't really mind rewarding him for his service.

…Although Roderich has always made a habit of giving his feet a once over. Gilbert has a terrible propensity for overwork, so someone has to make sure he soaks his feet in ice water, is given a foot massage twice a day and rests.

That's just due diligence, he assures himself, walking through his closet and trying to pick out a formal outfit for tonight. It's been an hour already, but hey, it's a big room.

But Gilbert does want to come with. Out to a fancy, serious concert. Odd really, Roderich muses while choosing a jacket for the night's events. As if he would run off with a random girl. Roderich laughs at the thought. Mortals are all children. No matter how well they are dressed, or the amount of diamonds piled on, strands stacked over strands.

Gilbert almost jealously guards his right to accompany him, stressing the need for security–how it's easier to have him right there as a bodyguard instead of bother with a bunch of mortals.

It's true, but it's also weird. He gives himself a once over in the mirror and looks through his gloves. It would hardly do to look like last season. Roderich has a feeling the extra attendance has something to do with how some nations claim he hasn't answered their letters.

His security goes through his mail before he gets it. He always gets things like that at the bottom of the stack, like Gilbert told the mortal children to arrange it that way in the hope of him never getting to all of it.

It's kind of vain, he muses, getting an engraved, gold tipped walking stick and heading downstairs. It's a bit vain, that he enjoys it. The little things they do for each other are constant.

As he approaches the piano room, he can hear someone playing around lightly with one of the lesser, more modern violins. Something easily allowable.

But not something he's not going to get the full amount of mileage from, he thinks, and smiles before he opens the door.

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Roderich finally expands his gardens after realizing how into it Gilbert has become. It's as if the earth itself is the only thing that is there for him, that won't change. He works many old, forgotten fields of East Germany, and also in Roderich's estate.

Of course, he can't go about it the easy way, Roderich thinks. He's annoyed, but still pleased. Gilbert is a high octane person, he needs multiple friends and hobbies and interests to keep him occupied. He's always off doing something, learning some new weapon or fight-related karate-type thing.

Their holy service together, and their contract, make Gilbert embarrassed, he knows. Gilbert is loudly blasphemous, always makes it clear he won't kowtow to anyone.

In public.

The reality is, their agreement binds both of them to each other, and their lives have an implicit connection. Gilbert is still his knight, somehow, despite the changes of the world. They both still act like it. Roderich doesn't know what he would do if he woke up one day and that certainty was gone.

He knows Gilbert feels the same, but the world has changed–it's no longer honorable to be who he is. He would be mocked for his ancient, flexible faith, for his commitment to serve Roderich. So they both act a different way in public, cementing a different picture for everyone else. It saves face and keeps their real life private.

Not that they don't have the same tendencies behind closed doors, but there's a lot more going on. Things are a bit different if someone jokes about your love of early psalters and lyres while chopping up apples for you in the kitchen as you work. Gilbert knows you only make up food for him; it started ages ago, when you were both so new and he returned from battlefields, both battered and loving it all. No one else deserves a king's hands to make them little cakes.

And teasing someone for their lowbrow tendencies and love of the common man is different when you're both wearing gold watches at an exclusive concert to fund raise for a children's hospital for the poor. Especially when Gilbert's wearing the handmade jacket you had commissioned for him, lined with silk–the whole interior embroidered with ancient flags you both had in use, once. And when Gilbert has on the leather black gloves edged with silver thread and tiny sapphires that you gave him.

And yes, they do dance together out in the gardens, alone, with the music a faint hum. Gilbert is the only person he'll take off his gloves for; he watches Roderich slide them off with intense attention, rapt. Even though they could get away with dancing together publicly nowadays, Gilbert is afraid to ask and Roderich's afraid of why he hasn't asked.

When you've been almost obsessively pursued by someone in your service for millennia, it's unsettling to suddenly wonder if their interest is waning.

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Fall is Gilbert's favorite time of year. Somehow Roderich found out about his old interest in the Swiss and Alsatian Anabaptists who mostly left Europe for Pennsylvania–he makes him their old style apple dumplings, with a whole cored apple ring wrapped in sweet dough, all sitting in sweet apple syrup.

It's a peasant food, without refinement or dainty construction, but Gilbert loves it. It seems like a miracle every time–a whole apple perfectly preserved into a circle dessert, and the fact that Roderich made it for him in advance.

The air is thick with cinnamon and sugar and clove, and he can smell it as he walks up to the house. It's the best pick-me up of all time.

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Gilbert likes the edges of society. He knows all the black markets, keeps his toe in everything. When an old missing Fabergé egg resurfaces, he snaps it up. He gives it to Roderich for Christmas, but somehow the ruby encrusted ball seems like it gets less of a reaction than the concerto Gilbert wrote for him.

It took forever. Just his luck that that's what Roderich's into, he thinks wryly. At least the excitement of the holidays gives Roderich a brief reprieve from all his projects–he's gotten involved with half of Europe's classical music scene at this point. And the Wiener Saengerknaben [Vienna Boys' Choir] is going under financially.

Roderich might be the nominal head of the classical world, in a metaphorical sense, but Gilbert is the second in command. He's the operative, the investigator, the questioner. He finds things out, and reports back. He's the one who goes behind the scenes and pressures people, gets compromises, enacts whatever Roderich's decided upon. It's funny, whenever anyone else comes over, Roderich doesn't have any food in the house, and definitely hasn't made sweets.

The second they leave, plates of custard layer cakes and apple desserts are seemingly unearthed from the air itself. It's quite the salary, really, Gilbert thinks as he eats a raspberry cake slice, heavy on the fruit compote. He prefers them that way.

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While they may be opposites, Roderich and Gilbert share a lot of little pleasures. They both love fires in the winter and going on excessively long carriage rides. Roderich doesn't care for riding horses too much himself, seeing as how tiring it is, but he does like to ride beside Gilbert as he drives a little, miniature equipage–though he leaves the servants at home.

They take out heavy lap robes like blankets and go out in the carriage in spring and fall. Gilbert always goes out to the stables and chooses the horses himself–he prefers to take strong, sturdy road horses instead of mere carriage ones, which are more for show, they're weak and dainty.

They go through the old trails, out into the forests of countryside. The carriage they take is old fashioned and very narrow, making it easier to navigate through the trails. Gilbert loves driving the horses onward, and they both love being out together, away from from everything.

Out in the silence of the rustling trees, the distant woods. And then at the very end there's a home to come back to. They shuffle in without turning on lights, and Gilbert always lights a candle, and carries it ahead as they rush to the warm kitchen, pressed close beside each other.

Roderich makes them toasty, thick chocolate to drink and Gilbert breaks out a little alcohol to warm them in the mean time. They sit with Roderich half atop of the other, and Gilbert presses into his neck. He's always worn ancient cologne, a mix of smoky frankincense, cloves and rosewood. He tried giving a little vial of it to Gilbert in the early middle ages, but he didn't seem incredibly interested.

Gilbert's always thought of the rich incense and smoke smell mixed with his snowy, soft skin as part of Roderich. I mean, what other man doesn't change up his scent once in a while? But not him. Roderich never cared for the famous eau de Cologne, even though all the elites were wearing it in 1709. He always said it was 'too Italian'.

Gilbert privately agreed. He didn't like the idea of change. Roderich was stuck in time–in a 'time before time', almost. He liked it that way. It wouldn't be the same if Roderich were suddenly modernizing. The whole point was he liked quality, the real deal, the plain old fashioned way for everything.

And of course, he still wanted his plain, old culture adviser and vassal. I.e., him, Gilbert himself.

Gilbert knows it's stupid and an unfounded worry, but he can't help wondering when Roderich's finally going to catch up to the present and realize he doesn't need to be a liege lord. And he doesn't need his own warrior, assassin and spy.

It makes him nervous. Even sitting in the hot kitchen, wound around the little master, drinking nice, almost scalding cups of a few things, he looks out the window, past the flowers on the far table and worries.

His heart is at peace, but he is not calm. He's never been.

.

If Roderich is the pumpkin, Gilbert is the moon glaring down on everything from behind Eliza as she meets up for coffee with him.

It's not that Gilbert directly engages them while they're together, but he sure does lurk. And have people keep an eye on them. Of course, it's partially their fault, since neither have told the rest of the nations that they live together a lot of the year. They both have serious schedules half the time, but when they're free, Gilbert pops in to see him–about half the week, every week.

Neither wants to broadcast their life together, but it does become uncomfortable once in a while to keep it a secret.

.

Along with horses, Gilbert ensures there are always some falcons and other birds at Roderich's estate. Roderich either doesn't notice or doesn't care. The servants approve everything, taking orders from Gilbert; it's something he appreciates.

The mortals will only say that Roderich will okay his arrangements; and truth be told they seem to be right. If only he loved birds too, Gilbert thought wistfully. He himself loves them. He always has, it's some personal, deep fascination with them, with their simplicity and their freedom.

And isn't flight the ultimate freedom? Gilbert contemplated it, watching a spruce grouse dash around. Birds were just so gorgeous. Just look at that plumage, he sighed to himself.

Thank goodness Roderich appreciated Gilbird, he mused. No one else went the extra step to be kind to the little guy like he did. He always had.

That had always meant a lot to Gilbert, though he'd never mentioned it. He was afraid that if he did, it would turn out there was another reason motivating Roderich in the first place. Gilbert knew his limits; he didn't want to tempt fate.

Their strange, multi-layered relationship was complicated from the outside–but even more complex within. It was a delicate construction. Neither liked to test the limits or the foundations, he thought, throwing down little bits of bread for the big grouse.

.

The first day with crisp air and disconcerting coldness excites Gilbert like nothing else. He's the same way when spring becomes truly warm, Roderich thinks, smiling to himself.

The man in question is outside, helping the servants weed and repack the earth in the formal garden. Roderich watches them from inside the house for a moment. Gilbert looks different when he doesn't know Roderich is watching. His features are less controlled, less intense.

Gilbert's already begun making up lists of which Christmas markets to checkout across all of Germany. And Austria. He so loves their little trips, Roderich knows. It warms his heart, if he's honest. Gilbert has such a pure joy, a natural love for the world and all its wonders.

.

Gilbert and Roderich have off days sometimes. He goes back to his brother's and stays down in the basement where the big tv and game room is. Inevitably, Francis and Antonio come by to try and cheer him up.

A few drunken escapades later, he's already bemoaning the quality of the food at Ludwig's in his head. At Roderich's the meals are perfect; comfort food for him and fancy odd things for the Austrian.

At Ludwig's, there's a preponderance of pasta. Eventually, the sheer horror of one more plate of big twisty spirals drives him back to Roderich. Not that he missed him or anything… or slept poorly when he was away. Leaving Roderich abruptly and unhappily never puts him in a good mood.

.

Sometimes to celebrate getting back together, [after regular, small fits of annoyance with each other–never real severances], Gilbert breaks out the gruit, the old herb beer he used to drink before the 1000s. It fell out of favor in society near his part of the world first, unfortunately. He misses it.

He pours Roderich out a little, and insists he drink a bit with him. It's an old ritual that's important to him. There are many kinds of gruit, it's like a herb-heavy early ale–Gilbert's favorite has sweet gale, yarrow, ginger, black henbane and juniper berries.

Roderich almost seems to like it despite himself.

The joy of the days when they reunite make the memories of their arguments [the real ones, not the regular meaningless ones] blur and fade. Sometimes life seems so simple, and happiness so obtainable. Gilbert feels like he can't stop smiling. Even if Roderich tries to scold him into tempering his almost manic expression.

He's just that happy.

.

One of the weirdest things they do is the massages. Gilbert hasn't even told his two friends, even when drunk. He doesn't want to do anything to risk it. The whole scenario is like a dream come true–when he finally makes it back to Roderich's old country house, remodeled over the years but still the same medieval haunt, it's after weeks or months of grueling work.

Fighting, marching, traveling, riding or sailing, it's all exhausting. Even though he heals, experiencing it all over and over gets hard eventually, almost as if his mind thinks he should be in more pain. Getting to come back to a home, a type of home, is the best feeling in the world. Roderich mysteriously and wordlessly ensures he gets all his favorites; his fav snacks, pastries, appetizers, soups, courses, sandwiches.

And even his favorite flowers in the foyer's receiving room.

Really though, he doesn't technically care about all that. Roderich has the mortal servants bring tubs of variously temperature-cued water and makes him soak his feet in horrendously cold water.

It's both excruciating and incredible, and then as he follows up by rubbing herb salve into the whole tired mess of him. It feels like he's being electrocuted with pain and pleasure at the same time. The ice water is such a relief; he's even cried. It just wracks his body, almost spasmodic.

Apparently he thought of the whole thing himself as a way to preserve his hands; as strong as they were, even Roderich needed relief, and a faster physical recovery time between long, intense performances.

He still feels like he's in Roderich's debt in this relationship, like nothing he does truly equals what it does for him. It spurs him on–to both find something equivalent and to take nothing for granted.

Gilbert doesn't want to end up in a reality where he's forced to watch another nation hang on his arm at meetings, or in Europe in general, really. He's a little paranoid about losing him, and so he goes overboard constantly. With everything from his behavior to his actions. He can't help it.

What he doesn't know is Roderich's side of it; he'd never guess how truly obsessed back he is.

.

Sometimes hanging with Gilbert is like going down the rabbit hole. The man appears out of nowhere. He has a thousand things going at once, endless mortal friends [not to mention all the plans with Francis and Antonio], parties to see, bistros to try, new street food to sample and compare.

Sometimes Roderich feels ancient in comparison. He doesn't have the energy, the stamina or the muscular anything to do any of it. It's quite manic. Gilbert tries to drag him along on many adventures, but he won't have it.

They have a type of system, though–Gilbert gets to choose where they go on his birthday and all Germanic holidays. With the exception of Christmas, of course. Roderich always says [noncommittally, of course] that he won't be offended if Gilbert's going back to his own country for the celebrations, but Gilbert never does.

Even during wars, once he returns he make sure to spend his rest and recovery time [even nation spirits need to rest, both mentally and physically] at Roderich's country estate. Travel and conflict make getting anywhere very hard. And it takes months to get from one place to another, mostly on horseback and then in carriages. Once Gilbert's 'home' in Roderich's guest room, he declares one week to be whatever holidays he missed.

[After Gilbert's slept for days on end and had a nice repast, of course. Roderich makes up odd [yet legitimate in his mind! ahem…] excuses for why he always happens to be doing something in the hall by his door after he's woken.]

They've literally had Christmas in July. Just the two of them, up in the rare [still] snowy mountain peaks.

Gilbert loves his birthday above all other holidays, though. Even Christmas. On that day he gets to ask Roderich for anything, any favor. Any trip together. It's informal, unwritten, but they both know it's true. They've done quite a few odd things because of this tradition.

Strangely, the adventures often end with exclusive dinners at the best restaurants in the world. The cutlery is always either silver or gold.

…Gilbert also gets the best birthday presents, but they keep that a secret between themselves. Words and actions can mean more than mere goods, that's all he'll say about it to Francis and Antonio, as he stares dreamily into his beers the entire week afterward.

.

Gilbert may be obsessed and in love [on the down low, he doesn't talk about it in public] with Roderich, but let's be real–everyone's got faults.

The man drinks an odd amount of milk, needs so much rest it's bound to get on anyone's nerves [he's never available!], and likes to try watching modern, avant garde [read: crazy] cinema.

God forbid they watch a movie that makes sense. It's a little thing that drives Gilbert crazy. Even the music sounds just nuts in these things, or simply gloomy.

.

Today Gilbert feels more at ease in Roderich's house. There are fewer jewel betrimmed bodices and lace-edged sleeves. There are also less people in general. Paradoxically, Roderich's haughtiness earned him a loyal group of admirers [and would be lovers] in every time period, area and enclave.

Sometimes it seemed everyone wanted a piece of him. When Gilbert fought for his, it often led to arguments–or duels.

.

Gilbert is aware he doesn't have fancy, outré tastes. Francis has let him know quite a few times, as Antonio rolls his eyes [and then gets the same lecture].

His favorite classical pieces are popular, regular ones. When he doesn't feel well, which manifests as a lack of energy, Roderich always seems to notice and plays his favorites, often sweet things to help him relax, like Schumann's Fantasie in C Major, written in 1836, [op. 17, this link has Martha Argerich playing, an incredible, famous pianist]–or sends him a new cd recording of himself playing it in the mail if he's not within one Austria's residences.

Ludwig is always shocked that Roderich can a. operate recording equipment and make a cd on a computer and b. would waste the time and money, but Gilbert just shrugs. Roderich is a hard nut to crack. He betrays his own labels constantly, both those he likes and those people have heaped on him.

When he's under the weather, Gilbert feels like the center of crashing waves, stuck in the endless, always wild ocean. Music gives him something to concentrate on and distracts him.

.

Gilbert cannot deny he has tried to be the best pseudo-father figure he could be for Ludwig, but the man hardly seems to see it at all. He made sure to expose him as a young boy to Roderich's music and food and literature tastes.

Roderich only likes the best of everything; perfect. Ludwig deserved no less. Gilbert tried to interest him in professional soldiering and horsemanship, but Ludwig was only dutiful, not enthusiastic.

The boy loved dogs, running with them through the forests, the best. To Gilbert's intense [and poorly hidden] chagrin, he was more affectionate with them than with Gilbert himself.

He often turned to Roderich in those days, unable to understand the boy. Why his wild romanticism? Why the extreme cleanliness and order? It went really beyond any part of Roderich's personality, which was more plain aristocrat, snobby royal and professional critic than anything else.

Roderich would find something to criticize for fun, for amusement at their banter; Ludwig would find something and try to scrub it clean–for himself, not even because of duty.

Gilbert still feels it his own 'duty' to try to know him better. He endlessly tries to spend time with Ludwig, to join him in his hobbies–with pretty dismal results usually, if he's being honest.

Roderich gives him tasks when they're out together; it's either simple bodyguard status or physical help, or simply sending messages, or bullying people into whatever Roderich or the other music bigwigs need to happen. He gives Gilbert a task and Gilbert damn well completes it.

They both work fast, in their way. [Gilbert does the same the other way around; Roderich enjoys throwing his weight around and letting people see his old, old power. Just like Tino, he has an ancient mysticism in him. And he can successfully fund raise [with fancy dress galas and orchestras] for anything, quite a talent, really!

Ludwig, though, doesn't want to parcel out tasks–and even then, he corrects Gilbert and tries to do it himself anyway. It's just impossible. When he [often] speaks of his attempts to be closer to his brother, Roderich's mouth slides down for a second; he finds the boy a bit distasteful for his lack of connection with Gilbert, he commiserates and comforts him in his own way. Gilbert appreciates it.

Roderich 'speaks' his true heart more in looks and glances, and actions, than with words. They are usually jocular.

Gilbert is afraid to say: I'm worried I'm the Yao to my brother's Kiku. That he's just into his own thing, uninterested in me. He wants to have his own way, his own things, his own words. He doesn't want to hang out.

If he says it, and Roderich agrees, he'll have to live with that reality. Really, if both of them agree on something? It has to be true. He doesn't want to find out.

And of course the worst irony of all was that Roderich used to have large shooting parties back then for the upper crust on his estate, and Ludwig loved the dogs.

Roderich gave him his first dog.

.

Gilbert gets hooked on tv shows constantly, and has to marathon whole series at a time. It's easier for him to concentrate intensely for a prolonged period instead of sporadically. He watches everything, from every country.

He reserves one funny clip per series for forcing Roderich to watch [who submits while sighing].

.

If there's one thing Gilbert can always rely on Roderich for, other than the usual aspirations in life [money, influence, power, sweet wheels, servants, very soft pillows, incredible food, trust, love], it's that he'll be offended on his behalf.

When Gilbert bitches about anything and anyone that is pissing him off, Roderich is always there agreeing. Francis always is too forgiving of things, Antonio is oddly the most rational one [on this issue alone, of course] and his other friends are not close enough to share this type of thing with.

Roderich's distaste and disapproval are very gratifying when they're being deployed for Gilbert. Quite a few people have experienced zero favors, requests denied, no help, no funds and no foodstuffs, up to and including Ludwig.

.

Gilbert is thrilled that he, Francis and Antonio are still bro-ing it up, but sometimes he has to specify to Francis that he needs strict rules in place. There are times when he doesn't mind, and everything, but he needs a casual, foreign place to relax in.

Where the foreign language can wash over your ears and you don't try to mentally translate it; where it's a hum around you everywhere, a comforting lull of zero language. Gilbert can get by well in French if he's concentrating, but only then.

He only makes the long trip to Antonio's when he's in the mood for sun and heat. In France, he feels almost home, but distant. It's like a break from his brother's industriousness, schedules and intensity. It's not that he doesn't love Ludwig, it's just that hanging out with him is rough, day to day. And Gilbert tries to make it as much as possible. He'd tried to give Ludwig the best 'childhood' life possible, and Austria [though disapproving of the whole affair] had helped.

Of course, now he wonders if what he did was right–what nation has the right to shelter, train and try to 'parent' another? Roderich felt none of them did.

But Gilbert couldn't help himself, and Roderich [to his credit, and wholly due to his love for Gilbert, he thinks ruefully] helped whenever he needed him. Sometimes Gilbert needs a break from gilded halls, and glossy everything, and pure gold.

Because it reminds him of the past, and any memory could spring forth at random–from Ludwig and whether he damaged him or played god to moments with Roderich [of course only the terrible ones hop to the fastest], to his unconscious mind pointing out patterns from the past.

Patterns like Francis and Arthur's odd meetings, the danger Lovino represents with his [mostly] dormant Etruscan magicks [though he does seem to be willing to help his brother and Antonio to no end, which at least means he and Ludwig are safe], and Roderich with everything.

That is, his friendships, his colleagues, the other nations, the other female nations [a few in particular], a certain Swissy and disconcertingly affectionate [in private] Alpine nation, his singers, instrumentalists, libretto writers, everything.

Gilbert almost wishes he could turn his paranoia off, but he's been right before. He and Francis hang out in Normandy or in the lavender fields, or go down to the poor, rural parts of Provence.

He needs a break from home, and he mostly thinks of 'home' as shining German palaces and Austria's ballrooms, estates and drawing rooms.

.

The number one thing about being a nation that you wouldn't expect, in Gilbert's opinion, is the awkwardness. Just in the sense of communication. It's tough to really understand someone else and they in return. Only then can you have real, clear communication.

Many nations can barely communicate effectively with others, due to: familial-type ideas about each other, their country's past culture, present culture, past/present achievements or atrocities, pre-conceived ideas, etc.

Mostly, Gilbert would say he's past all that. He has watched all the nations, a lot–mostly due to a mix of paranoia and detail observation ADHD soothing him. If he's on the lookout for threats, he's being useful; it's comforting.

Sometimes, though, Gilbert can see he and Roderich are falling down on the job. Despite really, really knowing each other for a looong time, they have problems. For example, Roderich's always dismissed his attempts to do things for him sniffily, telling him to let the servants do it.

Even when it's personal. He wants a servant to help him get off his horse, not Gilbert. Though Gilbert just covers up the sting in his chest by waiting and then tackling and simply dragging him along in an embrace [in public, annoying Roderich], it hurts.

What he won't ever understand is that Roderich doesn't want him to demean himself. All things have hierarchy; even nature itself. Roderich wanted an adviser, a trusted bosom friend, not a slave. He hates to see Gilbert be willing to do things that are beneath him.

Neither man could even grasp the other point of view. Even if they'd both tried to talk it out. Instead they don't talk about it. Roderich never gets that Gilbert is dying for more intimacy, all the time, in all the ways.

Whether friendship and brotherly comaraderie with his self-made brother Ludwig, or with his friends, or with love. What is love but the ultimate trust? To trust another with a sword and your neck. He has given that to Roderich [Gilbert likes to be heavily restrained, tmi really] and in return the Austrian has given him the hours of attention that he wants. All the time.

Sometimes he thinks, is it messed up that Roderich's attention makes him feel safe?

That's his reasoning for ordering this rug, which he puts before the fireplace in the formal sitting room [replacing the now-hidden-in-the-closet rare Turkish carpets Roderich got as a gift from some slimeball who liked him a bit too much]:

.

Gilbert is beyond grateful to share things with Ludwig; he hoards them like Spain with gold. Who once explained, while drunk, that Lovino counts as gold, because 'Lovi's feelings for me are worth golden truth and actions only matter', then broke out the old idiom obras son amores, que no buenas razones. Ie. Actions are love, what you [should] love, not [only] good reasons/intentions/explanations. Lovino is also the only one who's honest with Spain about anything… and everything.

Every other nation was either too wary of him or disliked him. And some found him creepy. Lovi was the only one who wasn't afraid of him, didn't bow down, didn't respect his power, sword [lol axe in this case] or money. Lovi was the only impartial person he'd ever known, really.

Anyway, Gilbert shares only a few things with Ludwig: both love the 'new' black-topped flag of Germany [while Roderich prefers his older flags], both dislike anything morbid or eerie Romanticism [while Roderich loves everything Byronic and elegantly macabre], think Austria's country's odd dialect of German is hard to understand, love beer and forests and trying new brands of beer, sports, love Christmas and ironically love giant, Austrian torso-sized soft pretzels covered in chocolate and nuts [instead of the more natural, common hand-sized hard German pretzels].

And sports. And international sports. They also like discussing foreign cultures, which sadly excludes Gil's fav: Austria.

Of course Gilbert knows the stereotype of corrupt but silver-sugar tongued Austrians isn't one he wants to co-sign, but damn if Austria doesn't always get his way. Every time. He's really just impressed at this point, okay?!

As for Xmas, Gilbert used to make Ludwig go with him to Roderich's for a Christmas dinner. It was an idea soon discarded when Ludwig insisted the expense of travel wasn't worth it, telling Gilbert he shouldn't waste money like that when there were poor people in their countries in a tone that was not one Gilbert appreciated. To put it lightly.

Gilbert set a new record for travel on horseback when he arrived at Roderich's estate alone. It was one of the only times he thought he wasn't cut out for this fake family/brotherly mentoring thing.

Thankfully, being with Roderich allowed him to push it to the side of his mind; as long as they were physically together, next to each other, he was unharmed and with him romantic-styles. And not with anyone else.

They still go on a lot of sleigh rides, just like back then. Gilbert knows there must be something odd about himself, for him to derive such joy from such a simple thing.

.

Roderich has a few top level servants who report all web shenanigans to him, but since Gilbert likes to tell him as well, he keeps it under wraps. Gilbert loves cutting edge technology.

He's tried to get Roderich into modern, that is, post-Stravinsky music, but it's slow going. In actuality, he's rubbed off on Gilbert.

He's gotten into the habit of working with Korea and Spain on melodies, which they then submit to their music industries. If Roderich actually knew about it, he'd be proud instead of shocked, but he never finds out.

Tino and Eduard try as well, on EDM, trap and house stuff, but it never takes off and sells well–Roderich keeps his eye on the rest of the world, but assumes Gilbert's just off galavanting, not being creative. Roderich likes to keep tabs on the world from a distance.

Alfred and Ivan spend a lot of time together, but mostly for space-related activities. For some reason, they both ask Roderich if he's seen the other [if Roderich has requested one of their people for a conservatory scholarship etc]. Since Alfred seems to spend half his time in Tokyo, he doesn't know why he doesn't just pop over!

The only nation Roderich truly cannot deal with is Greece – and Sweden, actually, when he thinks on it. Both say little, due to nature or natural snoring. Roderich prefers to have something to deal with.

Not just silence.

.

Alfred still comes over for his music lessons, just like he had as a child. Of course, back then it was Gilbert and an Austrian music tutor [also an actual soldier, Gilbert demanded it] sent with him to the Americas with Prussia and his men.

Despite the approaching American Revolution, Gilbert rigidly enforced the schedule Roderich had impressed upon him. If Alfred wasn't tutored correctly, and thoroughly, while young he might be left to English music…. which in that time period was not a music Roderich really approved of.

Sure, William Byrd was acceptable, even approaching Orlando de Lassus, or Palestrina. But still. Handel was nice, but without passion; just like Purcell. And the less said about the later composers the better.

Roderich sent some things along for the child along with Gilbert, both feeling it was wrong of Arthur to have personally dealt with the boy in his harsh manner, which was legendary in Europe. Roderich could only shudder, minutely and dramatically, at the thought of Arthur dealing with a child.

None of them ever knew that Arthur had felt free to be a different, new person with Alfred… they wouldn't have recognized him.

Of course, at the same time, neither Roderich or Gilbert tacitly chose to comment on the fact that Gilbert was doing a vaguely, much more successful [in terms of cultural ownership and non-differentiation] job with Ludwig.

By the time Alfred was able to easily and quickly travel to see Roderich at his estate, he spent most of his time in the woods. He hiked with Gilbert, practiced his piano pieces in lessons with Roderich, and went sight-seeing with a little guidebook and no driver. The boy still disdained Roderich's method of shopping, which consisted of shopkeeps bringing their wares to one of his city flats.

It was a nice relief, though, to have Alfred out and about–it allowed Gilbert and him to have some time together, alone. It never felt so good as when someone was visiting.

Neither realized Alfred met with Ivan in Vienna every time.

.

Gilbert listens to a lot of non-clubhall music [as Roderich refers to it]… but only when he's sure no one will overhear. He feels an excess of emotions, most of the time, and he likes to hear music that reflects intense feelings.

All in all, it's a pretty embarrassing collection of music. Every genre, every type, most of it very overwrought. He borrows stuff from Alfred's collection [now stored online for easy access], as they have a similar taste in a lot of stuff. A lot of emo, a lot of dazed and confused, a lot of trying to figure out what love is, much less what it feels like.

Alfred seems like he overshares, he talks a lot–but when Gilbert really thinks about it, he doesn't really say much stuff that really reveals his heart, his soul. What his dreams are, his feelings–it's all hidden under a jumble of rapid fire chatter.

The few times Alfred tried in his life to be true with someone else, it didn't go well. It left a lasting impression–back with stiff, proud, prim Arthur as a youth, still young when he met blank, mysterious, confusing Ivan early on, with his pretend-polite Canadian brother. Although he and Matthew have a different type of thing; they know they're alone against the world together, so far away from everyone else. That adds a different undercurrent to their feelings.

Alfred prefers Matthew when he's in a particularly French, Québécois mood. He's louder, demanding, passionate, sarcastic and real. He's open. Consequently, he only visits Matt in Montreal. Francis and Kiku are the ones he feels real with. He wants to get Ivan more, to have a deeper friendship [not that their's isn't already crazy and quiet and moving, with all these weird layers; half the time when they're alone Ivan just sits with him, almost hugging him–you know if you're in a relationship, right? Isn't it supposed to be obvious? Like, you can't miss it?].

Altho, on the other hand, it seems like quite a few nations have missed the obvious. Tino practices being a friend to Berwald, missing everything there; his real life is more assassin cop with Eduard as tech support Oracle. Arthur goes overboard, overthinking everything he says to Francis [… Alfred gets a lot of late night, time zone-ignored drunk calls] and trying in his strange, non-understandable way to make gestures.

And no one is sure if Roderich isn't just playing all four of his competing people off each other or not; Vash always seems particularly upset at not being at the forefront of his attention. Unfortunately for him, his usual personality makes this difficult to discern. No one notices.

At least no one else has their shit together, he thinks.

Everyone wants a connection with something, staring at each other, happy, it's just that those 'things' are different.

.

Roderich has a very odd relationship with Vash. The man comes by unexpectedly, always when he is alone, and says nothing of import. He then leaves, seemingly disgruntled.

Roderich, of course, acts as a perfect host, despite his guest's lack of social skills, but can never get a real conversation out of him.

He always seems particularly offended that Roderich isn't armed–while in his own music room. Or in the parlor. Or while receiving guests. It's enough to make him almost worry about Vash at times. The man seemed to never relax.

He has still never connected the fact that Gilbert and Vash do not like each other, for a few very specific reasons. Nevertheless, he always has a good table laid out for him. Roderich doesn't know why he doesn't just bring Lilli with him, since she could act as mediator, prompting her pseudo-brother and helping him interact appropriately.

Of course, he can't, since she's technically a better prospect than he is. Vash thinks if he keeps building up his mound of capital that Roderich will respect him even more, that everything will be better. He can't even imagine what he wants; it's convenient for him that they live forever, truly! In a sense, Lilli is his competition. He tries to learn from her, her ease with people and social intelligence, but it's slow going. That's why they're always together, not venturing off from their lands; they're tutoring each other [her in self-defense for the slight].

Vash thinks his 'visits' with Roderich reflect a deep friendship; Lilli allows him the fantasy almost out of sheer pity alone.

.

While Roderich prefers that animals be kept outside in the barns or stables, Gilbert unknowingly wears down his resistance by sending him modern photos of little beasts. He always lays out who most resembles the figures as well–Ivan is usually a big eyed owl, Alfred a dog leaning out the window of a speeding corvette, Arthur a little bunny wrinkling its nose, and Roderich himself as a puffy cat.

He makes a moue of distaste when Gilbert mentions it, but the photos are hilarious. Especially since the outsized, overdone expressions on the cats are so evocative, so energized and outlandish–just like Gilbert.

The man has never been refined, had poise, or wanted any. He was quite obvious in whatever he was doing. During the Christmas season, Gilbert likes to invite Matthais over all the way from Denmark. He brings presents from the Norselands, and the greetings of his shieldbrother Norway, who includes letters. Gilbert likes his friend for their good times, their jolly exuberance, but Roderich likes him there for his strategic value.

There's no harm in thinking pragmatically. Marriages no longer secure power, but alliances do. Gilbert likes fun, victory, projects to throw himself into, to roam the hills and countryside; Roderich likes power. Even within their little race of nations some have more sway than others; Roderich wants to be able to call in any favor, should he need it. It's just a precaution, he thinks.

Gilbert is aware of his [on the down low] paranoia, but never mentions it; he can see that Roderich is not just a worrywort, he crackles with tension sometimes. He just doesn't know how to help him enjoy life.

.

The new year always brings about a season of wild gaiety in Gilbert. He makes plans for new projects, is going to build a small boat with the Dane Matthias, wants to try new microbrews with Alfred when he visits overseas, and enjoys setting up future dates to have drinkoffs with Arthur.

Antonio loves giving gifts, though they are mainly of strange things made of gold and candies, while Francis is all absorbed during the holidays with his little makeshift family of Matthew, Alfred and Arthur. They all four of them obsess over each other, especially during any holiday.

Antonio has rare moments of crazy stress right before Christmas and Epiphany when he realizes he's not sure what to give Romano. He's collected potential gifts for him for centuries, doling them out at the right moment. Regardless of how strange his choices [a knife made of gold?!], Romano always says 'just one for me?' and it's confirmed that there's just one. It's unique.

Antonio always gets a great reaction, at least from his retelling. His little Italian is always pleased, but what he gives him in return Gilbert does not know. Antonio plays some things very close to the chest.

The nation community as a whole loves gossip, and discussing who gave who what. Alfred, unused to such old fashioned ways of spreading news, is always very discomfited by it all and never says a word. Well, he is a very young country, Gilbert reasoned.

When they were younger, Gilbert simply gave Ludwig a new gun or a new dog every year. Now he just gets him a crazy, ugly tie. And his little princess, the little master, gets a whole bathtub full of fancy sweets from Mendls.

Despite the shop being Hungarian, Gilbert knows Eliza only buys her dream man [and total opposite] things like an anti-aircraft gun tower. Totally inappropriate, but somehow… he thinks he's missing something.

.

Every meeting is a new marriage of feeling. It seems everyone Roderich knows is afraid in the face of love. He sees Vash and Magyar recoil at evidence of his feeling for them. At events, Roderich often sits off in a corner and reviews music or performance notes for events he's organizing or involved in–which gives him a lot of time to notice everyone's quirks.

Alfred withdraws to be alone when sent a present from Arthur, who never gives things in person so he can avoid the emotional mess of it all. Francis alone breaks through Arthur's reserve simply because he thinks Francis can. Albion seems to feel that Francis is a type of magic being, one it isn't wise to tangle too closely with.

But that doesn't mean he can't walk to the edge of that drowsy French abyss every once in a while and be overwhelmed. It's okay to be sucked in, to drown for one day only in a passion that rips you apart while you simply stare at each other.

All Gilbert talks of half the time is his friends, and he chatters away to Roderich for hours. As if he wanted to know that Lovino and Antonio were going to a secluded country estate to spend some eyebrow waggling time together.

Roderich never realizes that Gilbert is trying to show him what he would like to do. What they could do together. By thinking himself wise in his observant corner, he forgets he has blind spots.

Gilbert knows he is a courageous man, but not man enough to speak freely to Roderich. In the face of love, all men hesitate. He knows it would kill him to hear Roderich say something candid about their bond; even a vague, neutral comment would too much to bear.

It's so much easier to keep joking instead.

.

Roderich doesn't bother those with ancient power; England has some, France a kind, but it is Lovino and Tino who have great, live, exposed wire power. Ancient power, forgotten words, esoteric rituals.

He keeps Gilbert blessèd under his old protections, their sacred contract of service, and doesn't even give Vash the right to discuss it. He simply lays his seal down on the sweet grass in a holy routine of deep tradition. He bypasses words with him.

He knows it's wrong, technically, but he can't bring himself to do the right thing and talk to Vash about it. Magyar herself swears comradeship and brotherhood without even prompting.

When Gilbert allows his friends to come over, always subtly cleared with Roderich first, of course, they try all the coincidental sweets laid out for them. It is a mark of respect for Gilbert, one he visibly appreciates. Roderich can see the danger in what he does–Francis is a softer tone, a weaker color than Gilbert and Antonio, both of whom have been heavily warded for innumerable moments of time. Forever and on and on.

Francis, though, has given his feeling. Only he and Arthur together rejuvenates them both. Roderich has begun to realize he needs to do the same…. somehow. Despite the reality, he has the uncomfortable, looming feeling that someday it will be Francis who has the greatest strength, the strongest magics.

Because he is the only one who truly remakes himself, revitalizes himself by showing all his innermost heart to Arthur. Albion is too closed up to get the same effect himself.

Roderich doesn't know if he could be that weak, that open. Even if it leads to the greatest strength of all.

.

It's funny, how people disdain Roderich's lofty life, his golden halls and jewel-dripped guests–all up until the moment they want–no, need to impress someone. To show they care. To create a lavish, entrancing scene.

Ivan desperately commandeers the most Russian cafe in all of Roderich's lands when he meets with Alfred. The boy is not supposed to go off into old enemy territories, it's an unwritten rule that he rarely breaks. Instead, he and any complicated past friends meet in what is more neutral ground to them.

Even China talks to Japan in France, not in Asia or America. No matter what the location is, everyone knows that Roderich knows the upper crust. Globally. The rich and cultured travel in small circles.

Sometimes he helps out of obligation [if Gilbert or Vash favor them], and sometimes he does it out of creating debtors. It's always good to have favors owed you. He likes the idea of being able to cash them in someday.

For some reason, Gilbert loves going down to Venice during Carnival with his buddy Matthias, who inevitably has Norway and Tino, and Eduard too, all tagging along. Roderich always takes care of the arrangements. Feli is not someone he likes to speak with directly; there is no 'other side' of his coin.

There is only mystery. Roderich can see why Romano chooses to allow his brother into the ancient Italian circle instead of displacing him for Antonio; Feli's dark side is seemingly unseeable. Even by someone looking for it.

It worries Roderich.

.

Roderich is always honest with Gilbert, except on a few things–like how much will anything Russian upset him after the War? He doesn't want to find out. So Russian Ark is tucked away behind some false wall panels near the floor in a corner of the music room. He openly likes Wrath of Aguirre, though. That also makes Gilbert worry–and confused.

Living so long, R. figures eventually secrets crop up. It's inevitable but still unfortunate. They both liked The Fall, but it made Gilbert very emotional [and he wouldn't explain why], so they are both avoiding it [the film] as well as talking about it.

Gilbert likes popular film, he is always more in touch with the people, the common man. He likes plain stories for the masses, whereas R. thinks too much on what Nietzsche said on morality and society to enjoy that type of thing.

R. does not prefer anything he interprets as vulgar or sad, so he even dislikes La dolce vita, because of the implications of MM turning away from the young girl from the beach cafe at the end. He does not like W. Anderson because of the twee-ness.

Gilbert is a bit of a cynic/mocker, follower and joker who craves love, sincerity and seriousness, and Roderich is a deep, Byronic, leader and romantic who puts up a disaffected, snob façade and wants to be disrupted, amused, riled and livened up–allowing them both get what they like. Prussia tries to be light-hearted to distract himself from being preoccupied with his serious worries, and R. tries to be serious, uninterested in the mundane, to be above it all, to keep himself from letting his fun side and his loving side out. And his fun-loving side, all three.

Roderich likes to keep his ear on things. On every thing. To that end, he allows many private visits, for music lessons for Alfred, and everything else for everyone else.

No one makes any moves on Alfred, that is universal among all of them. He is unbelievably, almost literally, young. Most people think Arthur and Francis have gotten their hands on him, but Roderich thinks that's not true.

At the same time, real familial love is something far more intense than romantic love. He knows, he felt the ache of Gilbert running off to play mentor and brother to some obnoxious, mentally strange child. When you truly love someone like blood, it's so much more than romance.

People see how casual, how physical the little trio of Alfred and his parental nations are and think they know everything. The reality is that it's so complicated that the three of them barely even understand their relationship. Whatever it is, it's like an undertow, pulling them all down into the same water.

They cannot go very long without needing to speak with, see, and be with each other. It's only gotten worse as technology has gotten better.

Contrary to everyone's assumptions, it's Arthur who is the light to Francis' dark. Alfred is one of the few who gets this.

;

One of the problems of living forever is deciding what to do… and where to do it. Sometimes Gilbert drags Roderich down to Venice just so they can complain to each other about the food, the little bridges, the canals, the people, the tourists, the vaparettos, the wine, the beer and of course the they go down during Carnival. Roderich's connections get them into the most eerie, intense, wild parties–from the palazzos to the decor to what you see, it's beyond anything Gilbert was prepared for.

Each time it seems newly shocking. Roderich has much more aplomb before the excesses of the wealthy and well bred. He is more given to the sybaritic.

Sometimes Gilbert feels out of his depth, not just there, in the moment they leave a party at seven in the morning–but in general. In some vague, weird symbolic way. At least he's got Roderich, though, he thinks.

And at least Roderich's got him, to anchor him. To keep him down to earth and not off in a pyramid, off partying with distant, unknown Mayan royalty in a forgotten corner of the vast, endless forests.

Gilbert only asks Roderich if they can go to Carnival down there when he knows Feli will be away for weeks. None of them understand the significance of this; Lovino notes all their movements with an unblinking eye. He knows all parts of his Italy, his ancient peoples.

After listening to tales of Francis and his endless problems with anyone who's name starts with 'A', Roderich thinks Donne had it right. What is love but a self-made burden? The fantasy of a child?

…. And yet, he will not suffer Gilbert to make obeisance to Lovino. Or any other. Ivan hesitates before he speaks to Roderich, clearly worrying–fearing–something. Even though no little nation spirit is responsible for what the rest of their country does, or did. They are each just one, often not influential, person. Regardless, Roderich is happy to leave himself unexplained.

He likes to be a mystery. What is not understood cannot be anything other than ultimately dangerous. Fear is the ultimate force, it is what cows all beings.

Whatever Spain has, he ensures Gilbert has better. He course corrects his life, trying to keep him from going to wasteful or hurtful extremes.

The one thing he cannot match is Lovino's emotional kindness. Behind closed doors, vulgar words said in soft, loving voices are much different than formal, stilted openness.

Roderich thinks he's doing the right thing, that he's superior, better in his choice–but is he really?

[O my America! my new-found-land,

My kingdom, safeliest when with one man mann'd,

My Mine of precious stones, My Empirie,

How blest am I in this discovering thee!

To enter in these bonds, is to be free;

Then where my hand is set, my seal shall be.]

Alfred meets up with Ivan in halfway points all over Europe, but especially in Vienna. It's always great, to talk about science and space and physics. I mean, who doesn't want to talk about how realistic Interstellar's black hole was? Or Avatar? And clearly warp speed needs to be an inventing a sense, there's a lot of static in the conversations as well. Neither feels comfortable making comments about the people in their lives; and no one wants to make assumptions.

Instead they're forced to only discuss topical topics. They pause oddly, there's awkward moments of just stillness, air. Both of their closest relations always keep them apart, the two of them know that they have rarely gotten past their protective circles of family to reach each other; they are tentative, but tenacious. They both know the other has no ill will for them. It's almost enough to make Ivan miss the past. Almost.

.

Valentine's Day is quite the problem for many immortals. No matter who they are, they at least have one single someone that they'd either like something from or want to give something to.

And of course what do you do if no one has only one, single non-life eternity long relationship? You panic, or you get creative, or you ensure you're out of commission for the whole thing.

Weirdly, Norway sends dozens of flowers of all types to every Nordic with a note noting the importance of the 'spirit of brotherhood'. Since Denmark is usually quite over the top, wildly romantic anyway, and Norway is quite over dramatic himself, they always spend the day together, pretty low-key. For them.

Alfred gives grown-up equivalents of the gifts he used to give: paintings from Christie's Auction house instead of stick figure drawings, roses edged in liquid gold instead of wildflowers he picked himself, and the best brand of whatever drink the person in question prefers. Although Arthur alone gets both versions, both the youthful and adult, double the presents.

Roderich has a formal late breakfast laid out for Gilbert and himself at one of the hidden away, lesser estates. I mean, if at some point both will be drunk and Gilbert will playfully chase Roderich through the halls until they end up wrestling and what comes after… why not have the halls layout be a surprise? That's why Roderich makes sure to pick one they haven't gone to in a while every time.

Roderich sends his very few immortal favorites excessive baskets of their favorites. He even sends Alfred boxes of Linzer tortes. The child does have good taste sometimes.

Even though all his friends try to arrange something and invite him, Roderich refuses to go to anything. It's his way or nothing. Gilbert either shows up already dressed to the 't' or Roderich will find someone else to eat with.

But Gilbert hasn't been late yet.

Gilbert sends everyone a tasteless but cute Valentine card since they came into being. They're almost as bad as the never, under any circumstances mentioned ones that Arthur sends Francis.

.

Arthur has a serious interest in Jane Eyre. His closest fellows know of it, but what they don't know is that he loves the book for how closely it hews to his potential life. He fears falling into Francis' orbit, further and further, all until one day he feels unrestrained, carefree happiness–

Only to find out some terrible truth, some proof of an impediment to their lives together. In a sense, he doesn't really care what the 'secret' would be, or if it were just another person, another relationship. The practicalities don't matter; the fact that Francis wouldn't have told him does.

And yet despite his hesitation, his fear of relaxing into feelings of any type, he does enjoy being near Francis. He wants to stay forever in the mid-part of the book, just before Jane is engaged to Rochester. In that safe, happy zone of temperate contentment.

Restraint can breed perfection, he thinks. He deliberately parcels out when they will see each other, on what occasions they will touch. It's like a huge maze of skeins of thread, all plotted out. And all worth it.

.

la douleur exquise

— (idiom) A French, untranslatable phrase, describing the heart-wrenching pain of wanting someone you can't have. To say this phrase is synonymous with unrequited love limits its beauty. Unrequited love describes a relationship state, but not a state of mind. Unrequited love encompasses the lover who isn't corresponding, as well as the lover who desires. La douleur exquise evokes the emotional heartache, specifically, of being the one whose love is unreciprocated. (via wordsnquotes)

The first time Francis expounds upon this in a bar, Antonio finds himself unwittingly thinking about it too much. Maybe way too much.

Is it sweet anguish, what Francis feels for Arthur? If your partner holds back, needs distance, are they feeling the pain more than you are or not at all? Is Arthur desperately trying to protect himself–or is he unknowingly punishing Francis?

And what about Lovino, he thinks. His mysterious, elusive, religion loving paramour. From papery to pagan, Lovi was always off involved in some strange, unknown life. Antonio always wanted–wants–more of him. He wants to know everything, his thoughts and passing feelings, his whimsies.

And yet he tries not to be so possessive as Francis, not to overwhelm. And what does he end up with, well, not even he knows. Lovi sometimes lives with him like they're married, and then leaves for months. It's almost seasonal, but not really. It's all unspoken.

More than once he has woken up alone, smelling only the sweet resin of orange blossoms on his skin. How or why it is there, he has never figured out.

Antonio still hasn't ever found the bravery to ask. If it's a blessing, would he admit it?

And what if it's not that? That thought is what fear feels like.

.

Little known is that Francis sometimes goes off and lives in the island of Montreal under Matthew's nose. He always has Alfred come up and hang out, eating manakish [Middle Eastern pizzas] and drinking in French-Japanese bars.

Alfred never asks why Matthew isn't the one involved…. he doesn't want to know, he decides. Are the two of them too close, or not close enough? Either way, it's going to be painful to talk about it.

Or does Francis just want to escape being 'French', well, as far as he'll go from 'Frenchness'? Quebec French is another language–one Alfred barely gets by in. While Arthur has always talked vaguely about Francis, he never mentions him.

Alfred still doesn't know why. He shuts up and eats his clafoutis [famous French custard pie with cherries] while Francis discusses the greatness of the medieval Parisian poet Villon.

If Alfred and Arthur get into some touchy subjects on the phone and either gets upset, Alfred likes to send him an invitation to have tea—at the Plaza or the Palm Court, depending on their schedules.

He even dresses up for it; that's how Arthur knows he's serious. Their relationship is somehow too important not to mend up at once. They're both equally sensitive about it. It's some weird special bond, some odd brotherhood. An intimacy that fits into no category, and follows no normal boundaries.

Alfred thinks they really almost remind each other of the enormity of the world–their interests diverge on most things, making them both half of a whole circle. The enormity of both science and magic, new capitalism and old tradition, the cutting edge and the ancient awes them both.

.

Vash would have hard time realizing how he felt about Roderich. Over the years, he'd think it was just instinct, just brotherly concern, an experienced fighter looking after an ivory tower darling, a colleague, a close associate.

A close friend. And then what? After Elizabeta and Gilbert come and go over and over, where could he possibly fit in, he thinks? It seems impossible.

And what does he even want? Even Vash doesn't know his own heart. He wants to smooth Roderich's hair back but to be slow, chaste. He wants him to fall asleep next to him on one of his weird, neoclassical couches, but to put him to bed and leave.

What is that even called, he thinks. He lacks the words, and his silence echoes on outside his head. He hopes Roderich will still wait forever for his halting, rough, timid attempts. He's always accepted him before. At least there's that.

'

Gilbert watches a lot of American television when he's at Roderich's, he keeps a little computer with him and watches at night before he goes to sleep.

Sometimes Roderich doesn't come home from wherever his appointment was. They're something to do with rituals, magical ceremonies or so. Gilbert knows Elizabeta is involved, but doesn't ask. Roderich does him the kindness of not having her come to the house.

At least while he's there… He'd never really thought about it like that, and he frowned. Night never seemed so long as when he was alone. Roderich would eventually get back, flushed in a bad way, somehow, and just sleep.

He'd stagger in, though not because of alcohol or drugs [… Gilbert's nosed around everything, he can't not, not when it's Roderich involved,] and actually mumble before passing out on his bed. Or even before it. Gilbert has to catch him on the stairs once in a while.

Roderich never mumbles. That's what chills him to the bone. Never. He is a clear, proper, prissy little intellectual.

He still doesn't know what he's doing, and he's afraid of what magic or power Roderich's meddling in and afraid to ask. Delving into this might turn into an ultimatum–one where Roderich tells him to be quiet and stop getting into things above his ken. He's afraid of how hurt he'll be.

.

There's a way the world reduces down to nothing in the moments when Roderich grabs his upper arm in just that way; when his heartbeat is more accurate at counting time than the the clock. It's so hard to be weak, to be honest about wanting something. Someone.

He is obnoxious sometimes, unable to find a way to get to any kind of intimacy. If he can't get anything else, he'll take yelling. The attention feels like a lifeline, like other people value him, like he matters. He wants too much, but he can't turn it off in his heart.

.

Sometimes Arthur just can't take it anymore. The modern world, the daily responsibilities, the things he can't delegate to anyone–everything.

People used to do everything, from bringing in water to lighting candles, but now so much is automated, it's just so different. He always resists daydreaming about the past, what's the point? But…

But eventually he gets more and more tense, and his house of cards falls in. He gets on the train to France, goes out to one of Francis' old country estates and just vegetates there. There's always at least one local around who contacts Francis and sooner than later he wakes up to him lounging beside him, reading poetry or something.

(Francis loves his country's poetry.)

Then he feels like he can finally relax, almost manhandled into resting, curled up into Francis' side. They go on walks through the gardens and the rambling hills, and he draws a little while Francis paints. After a month he gets nervous about the intimacy, the closeness and seriousness of what they're doing, and runs back to England. But really, Francis has never seemed upset about that, or even mentioned it.

They both ignore the obvious issues. Like, why is he even there? Why is this the only time they get together physically?

Why is this the only time Arthur feels truly safe?

He hates the idea that he's hiding, hidden away in a place no one will find him in. Safe behind a wallpaper of royal blue fleur de lys. Is he running away from himself, he thinks?

Or is he running towards someone else?

Both are equally overwhelming.


	2. Chapter 2

Arthur likes to express himself. His country is the greatest literary source for the world, he often consoles himself-when he's down or dejected about his hopes.

He hates hope in general. Most encounters with Francis, despite his careful plotting, planning research, [and pre-gaming, let's be real], end up with him feeling frustrated. It seems he never gets what he wants, Francis just never reacts the way he thinks he will.

He's staged many a thoroughly thought out day that turns upside down not once, but up to fourteen times. He wishes that was an understatement. Francis never seems to get what he means. With anything.

Romantic gestures are taken as formal snobbery [is he Roderich? How could Francis possibly take it that way?! God!]. Intimate intimations [he doesn't always go as far as to make concrete advances] are taken as evidence of how 'causal' his feelings are and how 'little' he cares about him-as if Arthur is

Vash.

Ugh. Just ugh.

The only thing that gives him hope is re-reading all the letters. When he was a boy, and didn't know any better, he wrote Francis thousands of letters.

Crude, anglo-saxon speech that eventually refined itself.

The thing is, he never stopped. And Francis wrote back, to his endless shock. He wrote things that helped give Arthur the confidence to do whatever he damn well pleased.

That helped him feel loved enough to look at the world with joy each morning. No matter what was happening in the world or with Francis personally, he could fall back on the letters. He could read them forever.

Not all of them survived, he could see them degrade before his eyes-so he copied them. It was tedious and abso-fucking-lutely worth it, as Alfred would say. They gave him the hope to... to something. The hope to hope at all.

.

In letters, Francis tells him about everyday life, about what's going on with his friends, about what new cool French thing Alfred has to try.

Alfred does not look forward to it, but whatarya gonna do? He knows he's going to end up doing it anyway. The only thing Francis doesn't talk about is Arthur. Or Matthew.

Alfred talks about them in his letters, but Francis will not write their names, or comment about them. Alfred feels like there's a load of bricks ready to come down on them all on the day Francis decides to change his mind.

On that day, he'll know something's changed. He's not super looking forward to it, not cause he doesn't want Arthur or Francis happy or whatever, just cause then he won't be Arthur's number one buddy.

Even when their countries are at odds, Arthur always made time for him, always talked to him. He kind of almost doesn't want that to change. Even if it's for a good reason.

Cause then, who's going to be his number one friend?

What if he's just alone forever? And no one and nothing ever changes? It would just kill him inside. God it's depressing just thinking about it.

Arthur is the only person who's ever loved him enough to stick to him like glue.

.

Francis always has a touch of the over-dramatic around him in real life, but in letters he's much more realistic, oddly. Arthur finds it strange.

His real life appears to consist of artfully lounging in different places, cooking uber-fancy, too heavy food in tiny portions, reading oppressively depressive poetry, and staring at passersby from cafe chairs while drinking his third bottle of wine that morning. Oh, and smoking.

At least, that's what Arthur's observed.

In the letters, he speaks frankly instead of in weird metaphors, is open instead of symbolic and seems much more faithful than his actual behavior implies. One time, a woman jumped over an escalator onto another just to get to him. Another time, a man shoved past someone [they went into traffic] because he wanted Francis to model his fashion line.

Arthur never sees how jealous Francis is, because he never looks at himself in the mirror-or in life. He's less self-reflective, his gaze is focused outward. Francis hates that Arthur always goes to the ballet in Paris, vaguely citing the Frenchman's love of his own arts as why they should always go.

Spoiler alert: Francis does not love going to endless ballets, for centuries... just to watch Arthur gaze lovingly at random French mortals. At least it's just the women-but sometimes that makes Francis more furious than if it were the men.

Sometimes Francis just wants to possess him entirely, and Arthur is the definition of free. Instead of European, he makes everything his own. His little mortals even pronounce French words in their own way-incorrectly! He speaks to spirits or faeries or something, he's in another world. A magical one. And Francis is not part of it. Arthur is always immersed in his interests, his hobbies, his country's new writers, his culture, his politics, and his Alfred.

Francis is a bit more laid back. But you can't dive into another person, sink your soul into playing with them for a weekend, if they're thinking about twenty other things. Francis knows he's just one of the thirteen interests Arthur's thinking about at any given time-and that's when they're in bed!

When they're out of it, the number goes up. Way up.

.

Arthur is very happy that Alfred loves aliens [a feeling that is appropriately on the down low]. If they ever show up, everyone's going to want Alfred to do something. Rather obviously, no one else is prepared for that type of thing-even mentally. They will all look to him during that moment of

shock.

Francis always tells him to let the child have his dreams. Arthur would much rather teach him to expect reality instead. Both of them live in a silly fantasy;

Arthur's the only realistic one-and they dare to call him a pessimist!

He often hates that both the boy and Francis are his opposites. Arthur's a neutral on the ph scale, and those two are pure acid and base.

Francis uses his letters to be over the top in words, but holds back in real life. Alfred does the exact opposite. Both are weird to experience.

Why can't they be normal?

Of course, he can't look at himself from the outside. ...He's not exactly demonstrative, himself. Arthur thinks he's very loving, and very talkative. No one's ever really spelled it out for him [in a way that he understood, at least] that he comes across a little differently.

His letters to Francis end up being so focused on beauty, the cosmos and existence, it boggles the Frenchman's mind. Francis adds details like he ran out of yogurt.

Arthur details the way the sheen of mist after a night rain make a ruined abbey from the 1500s look like purgatory itself, and the flowers, [mostly a rainbow of pansies that look like multi-hued jewels], like the good intentions that they must cultivate to get out of that trapped land.

Sometimes Francis has to read it twice just to believe it.

.

Francis finds Arthur to be impossibly masculine, all strength. He tries to never mock his little habits of embroidery or gardening excessively, but Arthur's defensive about it all.

That just makes him more of a 'real' man to him. Francis got really excited during the whole eruption of rock and punk and whatever you call it music from the UK, from the '50s on. He was sure Arthur would get into it, and invite him over-over his body.

But it's more than that. He could get sex anywhere, easily. So could Arthur. His innate nobility, his subtle charm, his rugged look of a wiry sea captain on an endless mission. He wants to lay his hand over his emotions, his little wishes, his quirky opinions.

That is the currency of love.

[Arthur never dressed other than his usual way when they spent time together, all those years. Francis always hoped he'd switch it up.

At the bottom of his id, in all his unconscious mind, he really wanted to be switched up in places, to be put first. To have Arthur need him desperately, to be a savior. An American-style movie hero. To have Arthur look at him like his hero.

He's only ever looked that way at Alfred as he walks away. Francis doesn't even comprehend how much he himself resents that. It's a mighty river of a storm of anger.]

.

Francis longs for completion, a union of souls, while Arthur already feels completed. He can feel utterly connected to Francis even if he's alone with Alfred in New Orleans, looking up at the golden statue of Saint Joan riding forth.

Arthur enjoys the imperfections and randomness of their time together, in life that is what is perfect. Those people of Kiku weren't all wrong with that wabi-sabi stuff, he thinks. Nature is imperfect, as is the soul, as is time.

And the experience of love.

.

Alfred always wants to fast forward to the future-everyone will be more stable, more happy, better, faster, and of course, he and Ivan will run the real life star trek exploration program together. Out in space, on the bridge, there will be no other immortals with them, no one to keep the lines drawn.

Those lines made of sand have already been swept aside into a jumble and hastily remade a few times already, not that either them has betrayed that fact to anyone. Like a multi-colored mandala, remade a thousand times.

Apart from the mortal historical nonsense, it's just the fact that Ivan's far too old, and Alfred too young. He's just a boy; infatuated with the ruins of desolate lands of ancient evil long since forgotten, that's what they used to say behind closed doors.

Arthur and Francis should have known that Alfred wants to know things even more if they're kept from him. Where's there's a will, there's a way. Maybe they're right somehow, he thinks, remembering the few experiences with uneasy dark places, shadows that never seem to wipe away in the light of day.

But even if it means regret, he feels himself drawn towards Ivan, who always seems so unlike his locale's reputation-so gentle in little movements, so quiet and almost awkward socially [like he thinks he's not good at socializing and is afraid to do it too much], the genuine joy on his face at the byplay of the stars.

The way he looks away so much. He's happy to stare at Alfred unseen, but in the same room he acts like they've just met. Or just moved in. Or just got engaged. All subdued nerves.

He never shares much, though. That's what keeps Alfred at arm's length. Alfred is too young to understand that he too reveals nothing of consequence; he was taught to keep his crazy, wild, almost existentialist thoughts [but what are they but fears disguised?] out in the open, and his real feelings close to his chest. Francis is a good teacher.

Ivan thinks he has the perfect conversation openers; he's read books, researched, scoured the web. It never works. They're both just barely connecting, like seeing someone by a single candlelight at night. How can he not even do this, Ivan thought, upset with himself.

How can he not even talk to a child? Is some part of him trying to make sure they stay a respectable, moral, distance apart? He doesn't know. But the drinking helps him feel better about it. And his contacts in the Russian part of New York City give him detailed reports on his 'special friend'.

Even the mortals give him pitying looks. They try to give him love advice.

... At this point he'd take it.

.

Ivan never feels like Alfred is really himself when they're together. He's just so much more restrained, catching himself, lowering his volume, pausing, falling silent.

The guidebooks, [under travel in the library], tell him that these are not normal American characteristics.

He's seen Alfred with Kiku, how bubbly and youthful he acts. But not with him. He and Kiku openly mock each other, laughingly like school children. The better the joke, the more true it is.

He would never dare to joke about things like Alfred's weird thing with Arthur [who seems to have simply stolen him in youth and tried to make him [personally] as British as possible-isn't that child abduction?] or Alfred's age [technically he's like 4 compared to most of the rest of them. He should probably not be living on his own, given the amount of fire alarms he sets off by accident at conference hotels.]

Alfred always seems to be rebuffed somehow, pushed back by some unseen thread. What it mostly is is just Ivan's cynicism. Alfred's always seen what France says as wild, poetic nonsense, and England thinks it's not aristo to be defeatist.

Ivan, though, seems legit with his nihilism. When he unconsciously lets his attitude seep through, Alfred recoils. It's just unsettling to hear someone be so devoid of hopes, or dreams. Ivan never gets it across to him that he just wants some space, and some part of Alfred and his time.

But is that even right? Can you consent if you're too young? Maybe he should wait for him to get older... When he'll no longer be interested in some old friend he once knew. Alfred has this odd radiance to him, this healthy glow of loveliness.

Maybe he should just admire it from across the table, instead of wondering what it would be like across the bed.

.

The more Ivan is reminded of it, the more Alfred's youth is a problem. The boy travels through the little history he's lived through at warp speed, adopting and discarding zillions of things. He has bits of every country in his-their people, their cultures, their customs, their food.

He has a million cuisines, not one. A million facets instead of one core. Every other nation is much more grounded in some past, some distinct thing. Alfred has nothing but change.

He is a fresh start, a new place for the old world to flood into, combining in weird, unknown ways.

And Ivan thinks, how could he slow down enough to be with one person anyway? His tastes constantly change. Wouldn't that short attention span also apply to him? To be tried and discarded, like trading Thai food last week for sushi this week?

Does he have to wait forever to even see if Alfred is not just ready, but willing to pick him?

.

Arthur has realized over time that Francis hates to be the focus. It's a weird characteristic-you'd think his dramatic, metaphor-filled personality would love being the star, but no. He much prefers to talk about Arthur, to Arthur, all the time.

Francis does not like to talk about any of his own problems. The only way Arthur knows he's sunk into more of a funk than his usual is the lack of telephone calls. Thank god they both have stockpiled tons of money in every form throughout the ages, because they spend a ton of it on the line.

Francis calls him all the time, usually to bitch about something or other. From the color of the sunrise to the lack of street cleaners in Paris, to the scarf he wanted at the Hermes sale being grabbed by a snake-like sixty year old French aristocrat, he always has something to deride.

Arthur is a big fan of derision, it's kind of an underpinning of their friendship.

When Francis doesn't call, it takes Arthur a few days to realize it. It's been this way ever since the 1940s. Francis would probably rip off one of his arms and beat him to death if he came by his Paris flat and asked what was wrong [he's always there when glum, something about the city being always in black just agrees with his mood].

When he swings by Paris, Francis is snappy and moody and just wants to read tv and film scripts and mark them up angrily with red pens. He gets over it pretty quickly, what with the distraction of Arthur, who inevitably starts complaining about his own annoyances.

Francis loves to critique, judge and react to someone else's foibles. Just not his own. He never says anything to reveal what set him off in his black mood; Arthur strolls by on his way to this museum or that one-with the excuse of some British painter or other. Just being jostled wakes Francis up out of his funk.

.

Alfred loves medicine, and all the factually incorrect medical dramas. He is literally the only person watching Grey's Anatomy at this point. While Arthur and Francis seems to vaguely do a little in some fields, sometimes

Alfred just needs the adrenaline rush of being an ER doctor. Of saving someone from certain death.

It makes him feel like he's done something that's worth it, that's equal to ancient heroics. And then the feeling fades, and he has to do it all over again. It's a great high.

.

During the Cold War, Alfred is not at home. Arthur and Francis are nearly apoplectic at the Soviets and their nonsense, and they hysterically shuffle Alfred between their two country houses [in case any major city is hit in the potential conflict].

Alfred helps rebuild houses, barns and farms. Eventually Arthur decides he wants him to stay in London, and so he works there as well. He's always liked construction work. It's something with such a tangible effect. People are so grateful for their new houses or water lines.

He only ever sees Ivan once in a while, from a great distance away. He looks practically sick at having to be embroiled in all this at world meetings. The meetings are just a general thing, only truly continued with because Ludwig likes them.

Of course, Alfred shouldn't be at the meetings at all... thank goodness Arthur and Francis are way too suspicious to use mortals to keep tabs on Alfred. Mortals are too fragile and untrustworthy, they can be manipulated and infiltrated in mere moments].

So Alfred sneaks out. He never gets very far, because they come back pretty quick from the meetings. But he does get as far as meeting with Lovino at the border of Spain and France. [He never ever goes to meetings, seeing them as hilariously stupid].

Lovi assures him it will all blow over, oblivious to Antonio-who's lurking a street corner away, watching them.

Thankfully, it's not for current affairs, his own revolutionary problems, or politics. It's just because he's livid with jealously when Lovi deigns to talk to other nations, as he rarely does it. Alfred feels bad for him.

.


	3. Chapter 3

Just because Alfred isn't [unspokenly, tacitly agreed upon-ly] supposed to go into the USSR alone-or at all, doesn't mean he hasn't randomly popped up there.

Ivan has found him there, after the war. More and more. At the ballet, rapt with attention, bag of snacks on the box's other chair beside him. Ivan always has a feeling he's there, somewhere.

And half the time, he's right. Asking the Starbucks drink mixers if they've seen an American with a film star smile usually gets him his answers right away. The child apparently likes mocha fraps, he's told.

Of course, he's not a boy anymore. He's just barely big enough to match Ivan's stature. It's only his feelings, his temperament that's young. The Starbucks girls tell him that Alfred has flawless Russian, but his accent is a little 'old', a bit 'quaint'.

He has them describe it for him, and imitate the accent. The fourth attempt suddenly jolts him with realization: that's how he himself used to sound, his precise pronunciation.

Back in the 1800s.

He always joins Alfred in whatever he's doing, but not without watching him from afar first... just for a while. It's not creepy, it's just relaxing, somehow, he thinks, justifying it to himself. Alfred is very expressive on every level-his words, face, expressions, body, clothes.

Sometimes he dresses drably in dark, somber colors that have no place on him. He seems to stick to the old things then, the churches and the wide fields of just sky. Other times he dresses like the youth he is, all hipster colors and joy radiating from his rainbow of clothing. He goes to the ballet, he tries Russian tea with black cherries, and caviar [hesitantly every time], and goes and gets pastila [пастила], sweet pates of fruit in tiny squares.

By the time he gets to pastila at the end, Ivan has always joined him. It's then that they first hold hands, almost by accident at first as they talk. It's over tea, and Ivan is talking; Alfred waves his hand around to convey his side of their quiet debate [he can barely recall the particulars, it's always just in fun], and then his so very young paramour laid his hand down upon his.

It was softer than Ivan expected. Much, than his own hands. This gentle set, this light weight sent a secret jolt of pleasure down his spine. Alfred stopped talking, suddenly realizing Ivan had fallen silent. He looked down at his hand. And up again, and blinked a little, slowly, and his face melted into a look that Ivan couldn't believe was for him.

He almost turned around to make sure he wasn't looking at someone else. It was the most petrified he'd ever felt. He sat speechless, unable to get past the idea that Alfred felt for him, that he was loved back.

And Alfred snaked his other arm out, grabbed his teacup, and drank, all while still gazing at him. Ivan knew he was lost. And he knew exactly what was going to happen when Alfred finished that tea.

.

If Alfred has a weakness, it hasn't announced itself-much to Ivan's displeasure. While he's got Ivan's number down pat, it doesn't work the other way. Alfred is an expert at relationships in some ways, despite his total lack of practice; not that Ivan's had any either, to be fair, but he has lived much more.

Alfred just has this way about him, the things he does, he always makes Ivan feel special, cherished. He sends him random gifts all the time, just sent in the mail, with a letter stuck inside that explains why he thought he really needs this box of macarons overnighted from Paris. He always has random bottles of liquor with him, too, and Ivan really appreciates that.

That's just a step above, people. When don't you need a random bottle of vodka-all great brands, too. They seem to be stashed everywhere. Even culturally, every time he is interested in the old ancient things of his people, the art, the food, the festivals. He is full of questions, he always has been.

He just gives him respect, that's all. Alfred acts like he matters, like he's important. He rarely ever calls him any of the nicknames that come to mind, only resorting to teasing him with 'commie' when Ivan's called him a hayseed. He always blushes at that.

He doesn't see what Alfred gets from him, and it kills him a little bit, thinking that he might not feel as loved as Ivan does. Every time he's proposed they go to an event, or on a trip, or just to drive around aimlessly, Alfred agrees, and they have a great time. But it's Alfred who's letting Ivan run the show, most of the time. It's Ivan who gets what he wants, all the time.

So why does he feel so nervous about it? Nothing is free, Ivan thinks morosely, worrying about Alfred leaving him [even though they're not official as a couple-right? Do you say that out loud? Or no? What do people do now? Alfred is very mortal in behavior, very modern, always...], pouring out more drink into a tiny cup. What is it that Alfred gets here? Because he sure as hell can't see anything.

.

Alfred has always thought faster than he could figure out his own ideas. He has only know multi-faceted, conflicted yet almost harmonizing fighting or blending or learning, everything always flooded in. All the time, always new, he had so much learn and still does. Everything is always different, nothing stays the same. Except of course Arthur, and yes Francis too, and of course his open snow fields loving, hermit tracker brother Matthew.

They are always themselves. The others he doesn't always know so well, and they just look down on him, for every reason. He's young, and naive, and stupid [see: young], and not old, not smart, and not cultured. His people have a fresh, new culture every day. His people are everyone's people, but changed a little by him. He's like a weird transmorgification of the older countries into something strange, and off putting to them-something new-ish.

Ivan too is someone who doesn't change. He is literally the exact same guy Alfred saw as a little boy. He has the same mannerisms, just different clothes. Ivan is still weirdly shy, reticent and he always gets the feeling Ivan wants to spend more time with him, he wants to pause things. He doesn't want the night to end. That he wants them together every day.

More and more, Alfred gets why he has that look. Because he feels that way himself. He has so much he wants to say to him, all the time: what is up with those tiny dolls? Are they puzzles somehow? And let's talk about the space program, obviously. Has he read the latest reports at NASA? Alfred's made copies just in case he hasn't hacked his servers and already read them. He just needs to know Ivan's opinion, okay?

He just needs to talk to him, all the time.

Ivan may lack words, and he may be very down sometimes-super ugh, cheer up man! It creeps him out!-but he makes up for it a billion times with how loving he is. People have congratulated Alfred many times when they're out together in Moscow or somewhere, on what a great husband he has. Because he looks at him with such feeling, even little mortal children can tell!

He always sits so close with him, but Alfred never minds, it's somehow not without breathing room. It's like Ivan is breathing him in instead. Ivan doesn't really blush, but his whole face relaxes, and he looks like he's planning exactly what they're going to be doing later. Sometimes Alfred can't keep his eyes up at his face, he's just too intense. Too intent.

And it's on him. In more quiet places, when the light are off and its somehow always the middle of the night [but they're just getting in to his house, or to a hotel room, always ones where everything is super soft and plush and Alfred loves it], Ivan just ramps it up. Alfred thought he couldn't get more into being high off their love, as one says... ahem, but no. Ivan's so into touching normal skin with so much sensuality and he's just so into it, the look on his face-

When his eyes are shut, that is. He looks rapturously high, while they do what Alfred thought was called making out.

But isn't that just supposed to be for a minute and then the fast part and then it's over? Because this lasts a loooong time, and many times they can't even get past that because he keeps getting too gone in it. Ivan apparently doesn't feel it's weird, since he seems very happy, like a bunch of soft, long pasta hitting the cold floor. He's like a giant, boneless tiger that's clinging to him. He gets too excited quite a bit, and all without Alfred even doing anything; Ivan just overwhelms him his hands, and kissing his neck, and he keeps somehow massaging that one wrist while his knee is right between his legs.

Sometimes it feels like dying slowly, Alfred is not sure he's not going to not evaporate somehow.

Ivan is always so over the top passionate, so into it, that Alfred kind of wonders if he's addicted to this type of thing. Who was he doing this with before [... or even right now, on the side.. which is fine, obviously, he's older and they all do crazy, non-labeled wild stuff with each other-even he knows that and he's young, okay. Okay!] he decided to have these moments with Alfred then? He doesn't know.

Alfred isn't aware enough to understand this is what love is, not indiscriminate ho-ing around. He knows he has a special thing with Ivan, but who knows what the big guy thinks. He barely communicates anything not in metaphors as it is!

It's basically hotter than Alfred thought was possible. He didn't know this type of thing could be this good; with the few mortals he experimented with, it was perfunctory, it didn't feel like he was going to pass out from going through this endless writhing.

Ivan acts like all his normal parts are involved with bedroom, three-a.m. time. He once spent twenty minutes on a single hand, and let's just say it was like his whole body was somehow involved, and he almost fell off the bed because he was shaking so much. In the good way. You definitely needed your energy to visit, Alfred thought. Thank god he always had an emergency supply of granola bars in his suitcases. It was truly a lifesaver.

.

Ivan had a side to him that was lazy as hell. He could be like a giant snowbank, uninterested in moving with one arm around Alfred, snuggling him-and smelling his hair? Or maybe his neck. Alfred could never tell what was going on.

It sometimes seemed kind of like being in a French movie: super hot, long and confusing, very intimate but when you left and it ended for the week you felt like you'd walked out of a dream into cold, real reality. Ivan was like a haven of mysterious customs, long [very long] books and vodka. He was a very comfortable pillow, though, you could tell he was crazy strong under a light pillowly softness. He always turned off the lights before he'd take anything off-always.

Seriously, every time. Alfred was mentally counting. He cut an impressive figure, all big and tough all over, so he couldn't understand why the need for total darkness. But hey, maybe it was cultural... as he still hadn't read half those Russian tour introductions to general culture that he was supposed to. That would probably explain a lot, if he ever got around to it. Sometimes he can't believe Ivan even is willing to bother with him.

He knows how young he is. And how everyone talks about him. It's not like there's a ton to provoke any positive regard from the old world countries-or the far away continents, or the desert areas, or basically everyone else, everywhere.

Alfred always finds his habit of reading so much literature [by his own people, only-as far as he can tell] as this sign of true intellectual prowess, but he doesn't see what Ivan's life is really like. When he's not visiting, Ivan doesn't do a ton. Sure, he goes around his own cities and countryside, and tries to do some good, and spends a lot of time promoting and reading about space projects, but mostly he wanders around. Other than that he holes up in his country house. It's an old estate he'd never really showed his neighbors.

Only Alfred has been there. It's very cold in such old houses, so he always builds fires for him in their rooms, but

Alfred never complains. When he's alone, he just lays around and reads. And reads.

Etc.

Alfred must think him very hidebound and stuck in a past that's gone, he thinks. He's never written to him with emails or phone texts, just some letters. When he, quote, 'randomly' tells Alfred he's going to a conference on Russian literature in Seattle, the boy's response rattles him. He simply says, 'Cool, that's nice', and keeps playing the video game he was doing on his phone. Ivan startles into silence... for the next fifteen minutes. Alfred doesn't say anything more.

He kind of feels a little crushed, inside his stoic shell. Ivan doesn't know what he wanted him to say, except that he does. He wanted him to be thrilled, and to demand they stay together. To him, all this is implied-to Alfred, his phrasing and tone were so cynical and unenthusiastic [compared to American tones of expression, sometimes everything Ivan says sounds monotone and bored] that he assumed it was going to be a drag and he didn't even want to fly over.

They keep missing each other, over and over, in different ways.

.

Alfred never invites Ivan over to his fifty states. He comes to Russia all the time, after all it's just a quick hop, skip and jump from Japan, where he hangs out all the time, Ivan thought grumpily, resting haphazardly on the casual sitting room's couch.

There was no one to remind him to take off his shoes before he laid across it, but he did it anyway. He and Katyusha talked almost every week by phone, but it was still lonely.

It was a gloomy Saturday afternoon, with some rain. He was already on his second bottle of Severnie Amuri. It really was so good. And he still had to try Siberia's Mamont.

He almost was melancholy enough to watch Alfred's people's recreation of До́ктор Жива́го [Dr. Zhivago] on film. …

It was always an experience. To be sure. There were so many things wrong it was just odd. The letters were from after the Soviet times, instead of the old writing of Tsarist eras. The names of everything were strange and out of place [and time]. A child crossed herself the way Westerners do, instead of the Orthodox fashion. The Ural mountains weren't the mountains they filmed.

Random extras spoke Spanish in the background for some reason. And the bells. The bell ringing was Western, not fast and high the zvon way it was done in Russia [listen here]. And you could never see the white puffs of breath outside that such a cold season would get you in Russia. Just unbelievable.

But what a bright, silly view of the whole country. There was such hope in the little movie, and Russia seemed so beautiful there. From the [wrong ethnicity] people to the landscapes […which were Finland and Canada]. Even the little [inappropriate] balalaika.

It never fails to get him a little misty by the end. And send him into even more somber brooding. Is this a film Alfred himself enjoys? Is this how he sees Russia, or is it just a random movie? Has he even seen it? Ivan thinks so, as he recognized the book title and pulled it off the shelf–all in cyrillic.

He has a feeling Alfred knows quite a bit of Russian, other than just the basics that he taught him as a youth back a hundred years ago. How much exactly does he know?

Ivan never stops and thinks about what he himself takes from American films. Or what Alfred just assumes everyone thinks about him: concealed carry, hidden liquor [got to pretend you follow the dry county laws], comics not books, tabloids not journalism, trash not substance.


	4. Chapter 4

Alfred has been taught by many nations - usually in person. Despite Arthur and Francis [and Matthew's] worry about him privately interacting with others, unsupervised, most have been very mundane.

Especially Ivan, who likes to stargaze and lounge around his house, full of Russian tea and thick, lovely, heavy food, and books like a giant, sleepy tiger. It's all practically boring, coming from what Alfred had been expecting after all the warnings.

And yet... there are a few that are more than they seem. Roderich, who Alfred calls 'Mr. R', has always lectured him about power, when not lecturing him about his finger placement during scales on the piano keys. There is something about Roderich that is a little worrying, a little unrestrained but in control. There's this underlying hum, this drone white noise unheard in the background, and it speaks of power alone. Of control.

And what is power, Alfred thinks, but leading to the ultimate corruption?

Tino, on the other hand, is unrestrained. Period. He seems to live in a world without the modern monotheisms, without ideas like good and bad, at all. Even beyond the ancient faiths, he seems to have an undertone of sybarite glee. Like nothing matters, so do whatever you want - whatever.

No matter how terrifying.

Ivan has that same feeling of nothing mattering, but it just seems to make him more obsessed with going on calmly no matter what. And doing what little good he can. Kind of like how Arthur does. They refuse to acknowledge any pain, fear, or disaster, for better or worse. They refuse to give up, stubbornly carrying on kindly to all in the face of horror.

Tino isn't like that. He seems to Alfred like a panther, dark as night. Endlessly dangerous, at any time. Roderich would hardly bestir himself to hurt someone, instead he'd orchestrate a slow destruction.

But Tino would destroy your faith in reality, somehow. You'd go willingly just to end the panic and confusion.

The third person is simply Romano. All three of them are a bit too otherworldly compared to their fellows. Alfred has always had to meet with him on the down low, seeing as Arthur is intense about keeping his little boy away from the terrible, corrupt papists.

If Romano felt he was a problem, crazy, or a danger to others, he'd just creep into his emotions, his mind, and tell him to end it himself. He told him this himself. Alfred has a new appreciation for what other nation people call 'casual conversation' after that.

Alfred would never say he believes in magic, never. But if you'd seen the things he saw as a boy, out in that vast wilderness, often alone for miles upon miles, you might wonder why it's a 'never'. When he decided to personally embrace the Puritan talk, as a tiny little sweetling, he felt he had to reject all things not good. Even in words. To deny anything not made by holy work. [And that in some way it would preserve his internal goodness; he felt sure of it, and never spoke of it to anyone.]

Even if he saw something that couldn't be explained. Or lots of things.

.

Alfred has the feeling of 'parents', something Ivan cannot totally grasp. Few nations had any feelings of connection with others, even older ones. But Arthur and Francis tried something new, and strange-almost confining the boy to their residences in his lands.

They brought over experts in different fields to tutor him, wrote him letters constantly, and even lived with him. He went on trips overseas with them, and loved them with childish innocence.

It's hard to imagine, when Ivan thinks on it. He and the rest of them never had anyone or anything, other than knowing there were some distant people out there close to them, like his sister in the Ukraine. But even then, it was only random that they saw each other. They simply knew they were alike. It was an instinctive sense of similarity. He's almost jealous, but at the same time, can't imagine his poor little boy suffering like he did. Like everyone else did. Alfred's hope and optimism and lovely smile would have drained away into nothingness, and he would have become cold and without emotion. He cannot wish it upon him.

But damn if he doesn't wish he'd had that too. Someone picking him, choosing to care for him. He's only had Alfred do that, and he's only been alive for five seconds. It's only a matter of time-he'll get tired of Ivan and his boring life ... and personality... and go off with someone else. Half the time Ivan expects his calls to start with, "So, me and Kiku decided to start -" fill in the blank. But he hasn't yet, somehow. Ivan's continually surprised.

Alfred on the other hand has different baggage. Instead of fearing he'll be alone or crushed by enemies, he feels safe on his lands, buffered by enormous oceans on both sides. Instead of being confined to a few climates, he has them all.

And instead of feeling the desolation of loneliness, he has parents. Even more-so than Matthew, they are his kin. The three of them turn to each other for support, guidance, help, emotional unwinding and love.

Alfred is held to a different standard, though. Nothing is ever good enough. Ivan has often felt proud that his people survived-that any of them did. At all.

Alfred's work, however, is never done. Nothing is fast enough, strong enough, successful enough. It's a severe set of expectations those two Europeans set for him, time and time again. His best is never acceptable. He always has something to strive for.

Sometimes Ivan thinks the boy feels that way about his actual self, though-that he is never enough. That he has to do more and more to even be baseline okay.

Ivan also wants to say: I don't care what you're doing, what you accomplish, or what you fail. It has nothing to do with you personally. It is just history, which inexorably marches on. All you have to do is keep living, for me at least.

Ivan does miss one thing-the stress of it all. He thinks Alfred is naturally his bubbly self, and has never seen him relax. That's not something he feels comfortable doing in front of other nations. The rest of them, including Ivan, feel fine getting crazy drunk while others are there, but not Alfred.

He needs to be alone, up in New England or down by the border in the south, and just fall apart for a weekend. It's his time to do everything 'bad' that he's not supposed to, and wear raggedy clothes and not bother to get up or do anything productive. While Alfred knows the terrible things Ivan dreams about at night, he's never had the occasion to tell him anything personal like that.

It just seems to personal. His demons are his own, and no one knows what they are.


	5. Chapter 5

When Alfred finally starts to travel between different places in reality, he likes his own future the best. It's one that seems unbelievable-he and Ivan sitting side by side on the bridge of their own spaceship. One of many.

Future him seems so relaxed, so calmly confident. That Alfred doesn't seem like he still has a hard time eating breakfast sometimes, because it used to be handmade for him, by someone who cared.

The time he spends outside his own earth takes forever to pass, but only second pass at home. So yes, Alfred has bunked with 'himself'.

It's hard to go from be babied to being alone, and the servants weren't the same. His own people are naturally good to him, but the French and English servants knew that he was a 'little child' in a way, and treated him that way.

Now he needs an automated coffee pot with a million [very cool and necessary!] buttons.

Future Ivan seems happy, joking and openly loving in a way the real one isn't. Alfred never knew how pinched and hesitant and wary he was until he saw another version of him. He always kind of thought they'd end up together somehow, even as inappropriately intimate friends.

Of course, he can't say anything. Ivan can't make himself more affectionate in public, or more vocal. It's Alfred that always casually uses words like 'love you', 'big guy', and 'I miss you already' in one sentence.

Ivan often looks unable to settle on embarrassed or uncomfortable with his ease at talking about their 'thing'. How can you have love without communication? he thinks. Is it even a relationship then?

Alfred is too young to think about why some people turn to non-verbal cues and what that means.

He doesn't know that Ivan can sense his reticence and is sure it means he's just not worth being loved any more than he gets-that he should be lucky to be a momentary amusement.

Admittedly, Ivan never actually hints at this at all, but it doesn't help his not very latent gloom and cynicism, both of which push Alfred away. And all the while, he's torn between watching an epic space partnership in a time that's not his and his own guy. His own life.

Alfred wonders if he should reconsider what he's doing... right up until he winds up on the bridge and turns to see a girl version of himself, and of Ivan.

He decides he can put things off for a while.

.

It's very difficult to figure out how old Alfred actually is. Sometimes even Ivan isn't sure if he's watching cartoons ironically-for for real. Of course, it's not like he can ask Francis or Arthur those types of things.

And if he did ask, what if he got the answer he's dreading? Alfred should be at home with a nanny, despite his height. Just because he looks big and tall doesn't mean he can handle adult life.

Arthur and Francis always worry about that, and try to pretend otherwise in public. They scorn Alfred's nonsense about being a hero-precisely because he was a little kid charging into a war plane [in a Canadian uniform, for security purposes: they always make him wear one during truly dangerous times] just to go see his 'friends'. His parents.

He was so proud to have done something personally, and Arthur can only hope the other nation people don't grasp how relatively innocent and naive the boy is. He's had barely any life experience, everything is still practically new to him.

Who else but a child could be thrilled his people turned reliable black coffee into insane desserts?

Arthur has heard the others speak of them, implying he is angry about the Revolution and that Alfred had a row with him then, personally. That all that still matters. It didn't even matter at the time-Alfred was so young that he still had night terrors, nannies and had to be endlessly consoled that just because his country was going to war, he was safe. That Arthur would never leave him.

It was a rough time. Alfred was often extremely emotional, afraid of being abandoned by the person closest to him. Arthur had been both mother and father to him, and Francis was like a distant type of uncle that had almost 'father-like' status. He was more distant and sarcastic with Alfred, who didn't get it.

Arthur was the one who stroked his brow with cool cloths as he woke up shrieking. He was his world in a big way. No politics could change that, even though Alfred thought his Revolution was cool. He often had to go up to Canada to meet with Arthur safely during those times.

Arthur may be brusque and trade barbs with Francis, it's their thing, but never with his little boy.

He only spoke of the political changes and the war as neutrally as possible to Alfred. And when it finally ended for good, in 1812, he was relieved. It was finally over.

Arthur can only hope the other nations keep up their tabloid ideas-if they knew that the four of them celebrate together in July in Toronto first, and then in New York on the 4th, they wouldn't believe it. That's the thing about children: you want them to have everything. You don't mind if it negatively affects anything else. Their relationship is so much more than mere romantic love.

It's beyond mortal labels. They don't take their clothes off, but they've been off before. And they still live together, sometimes. Just like the old days. Arthur still has servants ready when he's there.

It's just more comfortable that way, to recreate how it's always been. He doesn't want anything to change, and he can tell Alfred doesn't either.

Alfred still often seeks his reassurance on many issues, and recharges in his quiet sitting rooms, his crisp, glorious gardens and his meticulously laid out attic, where only the best of the best is kept. Including American things.

.

There is definitely a seamlessness with which Arthur and Francis created a family for themselves.

When Alfred hasn't seen his favorite [and only] garden obsessed old man he springs out of the plane, one he usually pilots himself, and runs to envelop him in hugs.

He still feels small when his arms are around him. Alfred unconsciously cranes his neck down so that he can lay his head down on Arthur's shoulder for a moment. Arthur always smells the same, somehow. It's the most comforting thing in the world. While Francis changes, always talking about what's new in the world of high culture, Arthur never does. Not even in little ways.

Antonio doesn't know how they do it, they seem like such a unit, with such a strong bond. He's always surprised anew when Lovi breezes by, staying for indeterminate amounts of time and then leaving randomly. Lovi is the one thing, the one person, he'd never been able to control. And he'd never wanted to.

He was the one crack in his intense focus, in the past. The little bit of unique eccentricity in him, to feel so drawn to such a young boy. And then suddenly, he was old. Lovi was there, and apparently available, the way women shoved other women out of the way to get closer to him.

No one did that for Antonio. It's like people were somehow drawn to his distant air, his disinterest.

How strange, he thinks, not realizing that he too has been drawn into that undertow himself.

How do the others play happy families like they do? he wonders. He wants to feel that with Lovi, but then he still doesn't understand him. He never will. Lovi has done things for him no one would–taken care of him personally when he was injured, unconscious. For weeks, sometimes.

When he's unable to sleep from the dreams, which is a lot [forcing him to sleep more during the day to catch up], Lovi calls him, a weird coincidence. That happens all the time.

How Lovi knows to call, he's never figured out. But he talks to him until he's suddenly out like a light. He often thinks of how he wants Lovi to be more demonstrative, but when he is, it's hard to take.

When things were bad around him, and he felt hopeless, Antonio took his mind of it by writing long, wild letters of his feelings and sent them over to Naples, where Lovi usually stayed.

And Lovi would write back him, passionate and clear.

He would write things that Antonio had to read twice, then twelve times. He would promise to always 'hear him', that he didn't need to miss him since he was 'always with me, I watch you… you know my feeling for you'. He would say, 'you are safe. I will come for you if you're hurt again', 'I'm watching you'.

In those long days of worry, he didn't stop to think how nuts it all sounded, because he was desperate. He would have begged him to love him back. And it turned out he didn't have to, as the letters also said 'I would never bother with you if I didn't love you. You know that, it's self-evident. Stay in your house for once, bastard, because you know you're safe there, don't go off into battles'.

Which was actually true, weirdly. His house out in the country had always been almost statistically unlikely-ish 'safe'. Nothing had ever happened there, not even a cup dropped by accident. That was due to the combination of Etruscan and ancient Christian blessed items sealed into the walls of the building, but Lovi felt like it wasn't really Antonio's business anyway. They were Italian items, after all.

All Antonio knows is that Lovi always brings positivity with him. His love, good fortune, almost luck. Everything is better when he's there. That's what love feels like, he thinks.

Lovi is still worried his mystical work has unconsciously affected him. If he's gently, unintentionally bent his free will a little bit, then he can't take advantage of it. It would be wrong. But at the same time, he won't stop watching him from bodies of still water, from far away. He can't decide what to do, be with him concretely or stop altogether? It's a pickle.

.

While Spain is okay with written love from Lovi, he can't take it in real life. Romano learned the hard way.

You'd think he'd be thrilled, touched, excited. But no. Antonio doesn't act like he's finally gotten what he wants, like he hasn't always been trying to wheedle these types of words out of his young lover.

Instead he acts totally unpredictably.

If he says even something as innocuous as 'you are most important person in my life', Antonio seems to freeze and get a little panicked–looking like he said something cruel [?! wtf]. It's beyond weird.

Lovi does not know how to fix it: as soon as he says something, the moment is ruined and Antonio says 'No, your brother is the greatest priority you have, everyone else is a foreigner'.

Lovi refrains from pointing out that he, the guy undressed, underneath him, is also a 'foreigner'. It's a struggle.

But this is a real thing with Antonio. Lovi doesn't know how to approach it, and he cannot ask about it if these simple words are unacceptable already.

He thinks it must be a kind of insistence on his own political freedom [in terms of his nation], that Antonio doesn't want him to feel like he's 'weak' for 'submitting' to being in a relationship with him.

While he's seen Antonio get it on roughly with others [ not through spying through more mystical avenues or anything… ahem]–he is much too gentle with Lovi. He's forced to take it upon himself to just ravage him with love. Lovi can't stand back and wait for Antonio's out of place gentleness to manifest itself. Ugh.

But when the going gets fast, he does get going. There's that at least, Romano thinks.

The real problem is that Antonio has problems with himself. Lovi is much more confident and at peace with his own everything [personality, decisions, actions, past] than Antonio. He hasn't even figured out his dreams are part and parcel to how unexamined his life has been.

His awake mind might list along pretty much okay, half the time, but his unconscious knows what's up. Antonio is very unhappy with himself, and tries to block it out.

It isn't working.

.

None of them warn Ivan off Alfred, but neither do they speak with him. Francis will, but he speaks only of art and culture.

That doesn't mean he doesn't see the looks. All three of Alfred's little family watch him, silently. Neutrally. He sometimes wonders if the neutrality is a strain, and laughs to himself silently.

Of course it is.

They must worry about their little one being tainted, he thinks morosely, drinking at home. Out in the countryside, there's nothing more relaxing than end of the night drinking. In truth, he wouldn't be able to bear it, to see his sweet little dear be somehow less pure than he is. Less happy.

Less good.

And yet, he isn't willing to give Alfred up. What a light, a joy, an exhausting whirlwind he is. He wants him. Don't all flowers want the sun? There's nothing wrong with that.

Ivan has never asked Alfred's group anything, much less about the boy himself, but his sister in Belarus mentions him. She is the only one-not even older sister will speak of Alfred. She talks 'around' his name, never discussing him.

But when the other one calls him from Belarus once a week, sometimes three times when she's feeling unhappy, she asks him when Alfred's coming by-and suggests what he should see in Russia. It's very weird for Ivan.

But it's also very touching. She is very supportive of Alfred visiting him, and caring for him. He once hinted at questioning why she approved of the American, and she outright answered him. "He treats you the way you should be. I like it."

He's so overcome at the idea of someone approving of both the relationship and the fact he could be appropriate for Alfred [something he wonders about all the time himself] he fails to focus on how she knows that-?! If he stopped to think about it, he'd get upset she watches him. And apparently them?!

It means something, touches him, even if they're aren't a 'real' family the way Alfred's is. Most of the nation people don't bother to talk to Ivan, assuming he's as harsh as his past. It kind of hurts his feelings, to be honest, but he'd never give those superficial foreigners the satisfaction.

Alfred has never treated him like that. And yet, he is waiting for the day when Arthur tries to put a stop to it all, and Francis also puts his foot down. How could he possibly compare to family?

He doesn't. He wouldn't want Alfred to even have to do it to him. Dumping him. He would spare him by leaving first.

Alfred doesn't ask insensitive questions about his past, but sometimes Ivan wishes he'd live up to the stereotypes. He's actually very sincere and respectful-but Ivan wants an excuse to let it out a little, to talk about how ancient hurts still feel real. And recent.

And how painful many things still are to him. Some are weird, some obvious, some unexpectedly triggering him into long stretches of dark moods and wet eyes.

He wants an excuse to cry on someone's shoulder and be comforted, but Alfred hasn't given him one yet. He almost wants Alfred to pushily demand he take the scarf off-he leaves it on in bed, even though the lights are off. Their type heals fast, but endless torture can leave marks. The stretches of his body that is marked up is truly disturbing looking.

If Alfred thinks his little silly horror films are upsetting, he'd pass out straightaway at seeing his body in the light. Much less his neck, which is Deadpool level ugly. He doubts Alfred's ever even seen such things-outside of comic books.

He doesn't want to introduce reality to him any more than his mere presence does. Ivan doesn't like being someone people talk about, instead of to.

What did he do to deserve this life? he thinks, tearing up a little. He's just one person, with no control over anything. Most of history featured him hiding out in his countryside as terrible shit went down everywhere.

He asks Alfred that exact question half an hour later when he is so drunk, he doesn't remember he called the next morning.

.

Arthur is very particular about Alfred. Everything for the boy must be just so. Even when he's older, during Vietnam. He's always sent him elaborate presents, and he still does, every holiday.

Oddly, it's Francis who tends to be most strict with him. He's the one who demands Arthur do something about how Alfred speaks to 'that Russian'.

But Arthur doesn't. The more you forbid something, the more you want it. He wants Alfred to be totally exposed to what foreigners are like-because they all have bad sides. And they show them constantly. Ivan drinks like a fish, something the boy abhors. Even now, he hates to see Arthur drink at all.

Ivan is also too hopeless. Alfred can barely tolerate Arthur's level of static, hating change and stuck in the past-ness-Ivan's leagues beyond, seriously. And he hates how Francis swoons of nihilist nonsense, which of course Ivan takes seriously.

He's a real downer, as they say. Arthur wants Alfred to see it all up close and personal. There's no way Ivan can keep it together most of the time, he always seems so emotionally scarred and like a ptsd afflicted veteran that it's inevitable for him to shock Alfred.

And when he does lose it, probably emotionally [and creepily], Alfred is going to freak and run for it.

Arthur cannot wait for the day he hightails it across Europe and into his spring garden [one of the best seasons, though summer would also be acceptable, really] and bursts out with it, regaling him with wild stories.

It's only a matter of time. Until then, his child can do what he pleases. He will learn on his own that foreigners who are old are often the most terrifying. He should know.

He's still afraid of Francis deciding to 'share his feelings' verbally when they're together. It's a real fear.

They live forever-you can't tell someone they're your whole world, and you love only them, and their life has no purpose without you. It's ridiculous.

And impossible to live with. To know. They all need autonomy, to learn to live alone and get along fine by themselves. It's important. You can't make yourself weak and depend on someone who will ultimately fail you.

You have to stand on your own, at the heart of things.

.

Alfred didn't know what he was getting into when he met Ivan. He didn't expect to be so drawn in, care so much. But he does.

Ivan is lot like Francis, with a dash of rugged Arthur-like survival-ness. He's very deep, all 'hmms' and books of poetry... that sound strange when he translates them.

Alfred can of course already understand it all, he has every language in his country, in his every city, almost. And he likes them all, all so different and strange. He used to insist that others speak English only to him out of a worry that he wouldn't totally grasp their words, like how Francis and Arthur are hard to understand when they speak to each other.

[It's like they have a special language for each other.]

But of course, other people didn't understand why Alfred didn't want to use their words-to him, their words have no emotional feeling, but to them, they do. Ivan can get quietly upset just at hearing [random, mortal] people talk about things that remind him of the past.

It's the phrases they use, sometimes, the words, not always just the topic. When the rest of the world sneered at his English-first position, Alfred decided to keep the real reason to himself. And so, he does not use Russian with Ivan. Besides, when he calls up drunk and forgets to use English, Alfred's got a built-in alibi for not 'remembering' what he said.

It's never what he'd like him to say, though. It's never about him, or if he cares about him. Alfred always hopes the next call will be different. It never is.

At his house though, things are different. Ivan has a looooot of French stuff. Sometimes it gives him a weird feeling of deja vu, because no, he's not in Paris right now. Ivan is very peaceable during the day, but at night things get bad.

If he sleeps, he wakes up-but seems to be almost unable to realize he's awake. Alfred tries to talk to him, but he turns his head away and won't answer. He's never mentioned it in the morning, so

Alfred assumes he doesn't remember it.

If he doesn't sleep, he opens lots of windows during inappropriate weather [it's literally below zero! wtf?!], and weirdly pets his hair and talks to him when he thinks he's asleep. Newsflash: Alfred has been faking sleep since he realized he could sneak extra English biscuits if he did. All Ivan says is 'Alfred' and 'my dear'.

It snows into the room. It's pretty crazy. Alfred's kept mum, but feels like he definitely deserves his endless alcohol stash.

He never asks Alfred to drink, though. He doesn't know why, it could be the usual 'you're a kid', or something else. He always makes him hot chocolate instead... which is the shit, literally, so it's worth it.

.

Alfred has known real fear. As a boy, he saw true evil and true good. He has visited the far reaches of the world with Arthur.

And where he wouldn't go, with Francis on the sly. He has seen the ancient citadel of Mr. Roderich by Jerusalem, the underground caves of ice in Tino's land. He's taken the grand tour of the earth.

Arthur always told him, I have the sea.

And he would say, I will have the sky, then.

As a boy, he imagined that if he could somehow climb up into the sky, fly, he would be safe from the terrors on the earth. He has seen what things steal the youth from tiny babes and shred them.

He has been afraid.

Sometimes, in his dreams, he sees the spirits of that undying death that linger in the dark edges of his own America. He jolts awake, and is reluctant to go to sleep most days. But Alfred never talks about it-Arthur knows, of course.

Alfred tries to resist calling him every time; he's getting better at it. He can calm himself down much better now. He's so afraid of the dark that it's a true phobia sometimes.

He doesn't want to need Arthur so much, but he does. Sometimes he just visits on a whim, just to smell that tea, see the random sewing projects, frown at Torchwood and laze around in the gardens after tea time. [Arthur thankfully has an old lady as a cook, and her scones are to die for.]

The servants mill silently about, and Arthur flits around, doing his thing. Alfred never feels lonely, even if he's hanging out alone there at any given time.

As to knowing about his sleep problems, Francis kind of knows, he suspects it. And so does Ivan.

Alfred likes to visit him especially because he doesn't sense dark things with the same intensity when in Russia. It's all a blank white, snowy winter wonderland. Like an old Slavic story with bright colored clothes and snowy forests.

How can anything be scary in a sparkling land of reindeer and candy colored church domes?

Ivan tries to get him to speak of what troubles him, but Alfred says nothing, only stands in the bathroom over the toilet. Ivan doesn't know he's stashed an emergency bible in his bathroom. [He cut out one of the wood panels in the floor, in the north corner and stashed it in there, in a protective plastic casing.]

A bible from 1623.

.

Ivan loves how obsessed Alfred is with his birthday-but most don't know it's really the day when Raleigh arrived on Roanoke Island [off North Carolina], in 1584, on July 4th. It's coincidence that the later July 4th lined up.

Arthur always insisted on a special observance and celebration on that day-because it was the day that brought them to meet each other. Of course, it really was the fact that Alfred kind of stalked Arthur, from a distance. He eventually noticed.

Alfred remembers his whole childhood, in great detail. Let's just say it was obvious that Arthur had never taken care of anybody else before. He did not care for the Puritans, he was not an extremist, but Alfred did.

What he really did, because no nation person needs anything, really, as per their immortality or inhuman nature, was be his friend. He hung out with Alfred a lot. They did things Alfred liked to do [finding wildflowers, following bunnies around, jumping into creeks], and Arthur showed him his interests as well [ships, navigation, poetry, fashion].

They were best friends, and still are.

When Alfred has his birthday, Ivan just sends him a letter in the mail later. A few days after. He doesn't want to risk anyone seeing it. Ivan actually looked up 'what Americans do regarding birthday' and found that have a cake-and that someone else makes it!

In Russia, you celebrate right after the day [don't tempt bad luck by doing it before], and you make all the food and cakes yourself. He makes up a little box of packages of jam filled Tula gingerbread cakes, the fruit pastilas that Alfred always buys himself, and honeyed, deep fried dough chack-chaks.

Ivan himself prefers baked apples [as Russian apples are more sour than modern kinds] and vatrushka, flat cheese danish buns. He wraps up Alfred's present and waits for him to arrive.

His letter told him he better hurry up-the foxes might eat up his gift in the meantime. He always comes. He doesn't like Russian tea so much, though, so Ivan makes it British style for him.

.

Romano has always loved women. All types, all ages–even Northern Italians! He can make exceptions for the really incredible ones.

And sometimes other countries' girls as well, but not always. They're like a good afternoon, [nice food, great wine, interesting conversation] in human form. And they love him back. He only likes women who are passionate, so that they match his level of ferocity in the bedroom.

Antonio treats his random mortal lovers much more disposable-y. Romano buys them jewelry, lounges around with them, chats on random mornings over coffee, standing up at the bar. He openly tells them he adores them, he loves them–he lets them slap him, and laughs. And they laugh too. He's playful and fun and smiles.

Antonio has noticed all this, but he doesn't know what to make of it. Romano only brings food to his house, nothing more. And he rarely smiles.

Once, he trailed after Francis as he left a world meeting in New York with Arthur–and ended up in a secret, twenties style hidden speakeasy. And inside were dozens of people packed in dancing, and drinking, and there was Romano, sitting next Alfred.

A gorgeous Italian girl was on his lap, laughing with him as they both watched the table's impromptu card games, and Alfred sat beside him with a glass bottle of coca-cola.

It's like he has another life, another world, that Antonio doesn't get to see. It feels like the cruelest thing he's ever done to him, he reflects, and walks back outside into the cold air of the March streets.

.

It is a strange thing, Ivan thinks, that Alfred serves many people. He looks to his Arthur and then to Francis for what civilization is, what progress is-and to Romano for what morality is, torn between his excessive, baroque faith and his own Puritan roots.

They're definitely noticeable, Alfred won't even use vulgar language most of the time. Casual swearing, yes, but nothing crude. And never in [or even near] intimate moments. Ivan does not totally know what it would feel like to be that Puritan, but Alfred is still clearly half-feeling it.

The rest of the time he's a totally modern person, on the cutting edge of everything, obsessing about the future. Always looking to tomorrow, and tossing today's coat on the floor in an effort to concentrate on tomorrow's experiments. Ivan has never looked to anyone but himself. He has watched the people of his endless land in the far east's north rise and fall, and rise again. He has loved their folklore, their phrases, their little culinary ideas. He is fond of it all, really.

Does Alfred really have anything of his own? he thinks. He has seen him out and about sometimes, partying it up with his friends and at places other nation people frequent.

He has seen him even kiss Romano's hand-but not really. An odd gesture, since Alfred puts his own hand on top, and then touched his own lips to it. What's the point? Ivan wonders.

Sometimes Arthur and Francis's mastery of him bothers Ivan a little-how he jumps up and goes running when they beckon. He will carry their things, listen as they dictate, obey.

Ivan doesn't understand that servitude can be a subtle part of love, when you're used to an ancient system. And that both of the older men have done much more than just carry trinkets for Alfred. They have spent trillions on him over the years, just out of love.

They've dedicated years to teaching him all they know, and hiring tutors for things they don't. They are very invested in him, on an intense emotional level. He is their fresh start, the time they get to start over.

With Alfred, they get to be kind, a mentor, a parent, a brother. They get to set the scene just the way they want, with no past looming over them. Alfred is new to everything, and all is new to him. He doesn't assume anything about them.

And in that blank slate of his youth, they both find they can be the best versions of themselves. After they started it all with Alfred in the late 1500s, both Arthur and Francis turned a corner within themselves.

They turned from emotionless, idle chess masters to people tempered by feeling, inspired by the fragile beauty of the world.

They stopped being total dicks, Ivan reflects. They became their real selves, the part buried within. Ivan can't really resent their hold over Alfred, though, because he knows first hand how good they were [and are] to the boy.

How they love him. They hop on planes to get to him immediately if he's having problems or is in a fit of moody sadness.

Ivan's seen how they bring him little odds and ends just to surprise him, randomly. He has seen Alfred laying half on top of Arthur, bent over to approximate the way a child would, since he's too tall now for it. And how Arthur always praises him with funny backhanded compliments when he gives a speech at world meetings. He's not very good at doing it, but he tries his best. It's mostly odd ramblings with movie references.

.

Norge is a conundrum. Matthais loves him, but rarely understands him. He's always got a jam-packed schedule, everything from playing with dogs in pet daycare to working at the lego store to exploring the endless natural caves beneath the ground-there's even abandoned mines to explore. Matthais is Europe's number one urban explorer.

He even has a special instagram for the pics.

When he comes home from his adventures, often to the old house Norge, [that is, Erik] and him shared together in land outside of Copenhagen, he often finds Norge already living there. It's weird, to say the least. [There are boxes of coffee everywhere... and cans of soda pop from all over the world? Inexplicable, typical Norge.] .]

[Over the years, Norge has brought quite a lot of stuff into his house. One day he just showed up in the 1500s. Matthais hadn't even really mentioned the place before.]

Norge has a roundabout way of saying things. He will criticize Matthais' book collection, but by the time he's through, he'll suddenly realize what the real problem is. It's always an interpretive dance, an unpacking of symbolism and signs.

Norge gets especially omnipresent if anyone comments on his 'dislike' of Denmark. Matthais has never tried to have him 'move in' on purpose, he's never asked for sweet words, he's just enjoyed Norge when he's there.

The rest of the time, he enjoys everything their lands have to offer. He doesn't always truly get why Norge often enjoys reclining for days out in the wild hills, or contemplating a book for weeks. Matthais is a man of action. He will never guess at how insecure Norge actually is. It's all too clear that Den will never need him, he's always rushing from one activity to the next, from one battle to the next-from one street to the next.

Norge is always worried that if he doesn't keep showing up and getting in his face about the flaws of his stuff, his culture, his history, his culinary world and yes, his furniture [!], Matthais will simply float on, unperturbed.

And he'll be forgotten. He loves his magic, but not enough to withdraw from real, vibrant, mortal life completely. All Matthais seems to be sometimes is human.

He has tried to seek out Iceland as well, as a helpmeet and friend, but the boy has his own interests, his own life. All Norge has is Matthais. And the only way to get his attention is to barge in sniping.

If he really loved him, Norge thinks, wouldn't he try to tie him down? Try to be a 'couple' with rings, as the mortals do?

Norge snaps into a cold fury and leaves when he hears the other nation people joke about 'who is practically married'. It's almost mocking. The others seem to genuinely believe Norge cares nothing for the person closest to him, when it's really more the other way around.

Real love means wanting to stake a claim, to take possession, he thinks. A certain particular Dane hasn't bothered. Norge fears he never will.

.

Norge lives in a mystical, often other-worldly world. He walks with trolls, takes boat rides in the sea constantly and speaks to the draugen, the spirits of people who died at sea. Mortals would be killed unless they out-raced one, but Norge is no mere mortal.

He feels close to them; they are alone, wandering around their land, earth, nature. He sails on his lake Seljordsvatnet and speaks with the monstrous serpent Selma. He bribes the nisse gnomes by Denmark's house to look after him, and has them tell him all that has happened.

He lives a life of true sight, of looking beyond the physical. And yet, his dreams are mundane. Loving, sweet. And always him writing jeg elsker deg on Matthais' palm, and then a Danish ring being produced. And the question being asked. [It's a ridiculous thought, no one does that. They live forever, it's silly to even pretend they could. No nation ever has, as far as he knows.]

Sometimes the dreams feature the Dane declaring he loves going sailing aimlessly into dangerous waters and talking to terrifying, macabre spirits as they drift on one of his little boats.

Spoilers-Matthais hates that.

Norwegians have no world for 'sorry'. Apparently, it's easy to surmise from how the others see him. Why is his inner focus maligned? He has a resting bitch face, sure. But he has feelings just like anyone else. Does he not bleed?

He has overheard Tino talking about him-he neither cares for nor dislikes him. His magic is stranger, more esoteric than Norge's, and he wants nothing to do with it.

[+ finger writing idea from the classic, excellent Dennor fic In Our Sanctuary]

Francis is very fond of Ludwig. He's Prussia's little boy, after all. When he was young, Francis taught him French and about culture. God knows what he was learning from Roderich, who is more ethnocentric than anyone on earth.

So they meet still, once a month. To 'discuss things'. Mostly Ludwig just gets a chance to talk freely about whatever he wants, under the guise of Francis imparting some important high culture knowledge.

When they are alone, Ludwig really relaxes, and talks with startling openness. [When he was small, Gilbert told him he was always safe with his two friends.] He talks about his 'situation' with Feli, but it's mostly the fact that Feli is a very strange person, it turns out.

He can go from hot to cold in a New York minute, and rival Lovi in his impulsive walk out disappearances.

The only difference is that Feli keeps up a normal, cheerful façade, right up until you realize he's gone-and with all his stuff! And of course, Ludwig has no idea why, what's wrong, anything. Just as Feli is startlingly forward in love, so he is in anger.

He really puts Ludwig through the ringer, Francis reflects, listening once more to his recent adventures. Ludwig comes to him for advice, but really Francis just sits and drinks rosé in the summer sun. [He secretly allows Alfred to put ice cubes in it; the struggle is real. The struggle for dignity.] Mostly, there's no answer to Ludwig's questions.

It's just what you deal with when you find someone you care about more than their peccadilloes. It's not that Feli is a bad communicator, it's just that he doesn't convey anything at all. He's not interested in that.

To him, love [and life itself] is about symbolic moments, special silences, and grand little surprises. Firstly, Ludwig doesn't understand what that even means. Secondly, he doesn't value it.

They're bound for trouble, Francis reflects, half-listening to him drone on. Ludwig doesn't yet realize he's the one who loves more-like with Francis and Arthur. Francis is the one drawn back in, again and again.

He's seen something incredible [ie. Arthur] and wants it for himself. Once you find someone truly unique and worthwhile, who inspires you to be a better person, it changes you. Ludwig has found that in Feli, but Francis doubts it's worked the other way around.

Lovi is hanging out at Antonio's house more often than Ludwig gets to see his 'friend', [as he refers to Feli, never saying his name]. Francis would know, seeing how Antonio always texts the two of them 'busy' when he's there.

It's a lot.

[And Antonio seems to think it's nothing at all, a paltry amount of time! He'd have to move to Italy if he were in Ludwig's shoes.]


End file.
